


Distances

by hlwim



Series: Loss [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlwim/pseuds/hlwim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mai returns, and Zuko lives--but the road home is long. Post-Canon AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boulevard

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** non-graphic mentions of infant death; depression  
>  **Note:** This fic ignores both _The Promise_ and _The Search_.

** The Boulevard **

Mai is always conscious of the eyes of others.

She had been hopeful that the lack of procession might conceal her—keeping the ship outside the gates until they could blend with the returning fleet, allowing the cargo to unload while the attendant tidied the cabin, waiting quietly below-decks for the fishmongers and their well-packed carts to wander away from the marina. The dock is entirely empty before she can accept the coachman's hand and step into the carriage.

But her hopes are never to be so: already she can hear the welling of whispers lapping against the wheels, a gentle tide of curiosity and concern which will overtake the carriage and consume her. There are no funerary veils to conceal her now.

The attendant arranges the driving blanket over Mai's lap—there is still the slightest hint of winter's chill in the sunset, but the trees are bright with green and swaying in the gentle breeze. Beneath their branches gather men and women laden with market baskets, babies slung across backs and tiny children swinging between arms, all smiling and waving as the carriage rolls past.

Mai returns the waves through the uncovered window, her face composed to a smooth mask. It had been almost too easy to win over the citizens—they'd arrived in droves to witness the wedding, and smile now with perfect sincerity, pleased to welcome her home.

In review, perhaps, it is less surprising: the palace had lacked a Fire Lady for years before Mai's ascension, and all those associated pleasantries and obligations had been ignored. No charity, no patronage, and the only permitted festivals were always, invariably a celebration of war and military might.

Mai had restored the old traditions slowly, as time and money permitted. Reparations to the Earth Kingdom and Water Tribes were by no means modest, but it would not do to flaunt the wealth Ozai's crippling wartime taxes had created for the palace.

Certainly there was comfort for the people in her familiarity. Mai had been fixture in the royal court since infancy, and had kept visible enough, through little effort of her own. Her father saw to that, of course.

“You were missed, my lady,” the attendant says, offering a small smile.

“Yes,” Mai says.

The marketplace melts into the dim horizon, and she is momentarily released, able to sink back into the cushions once the carriage has begun its ascent. The inner city is open to the masses, but the road remains an effective barrier. In the few moments before the carriage crests the crater's edge, Mai commits to memory the brief sensation of calm.

The boulevard stretches out before her, the palace its unavoidable terminus. Someone will see the carriage and carry the message up.

It's evening: the ministers will be deep in conference around the throne, planning out the following day's tasks. Spring means growth, means overtures from farmers' unions and frustrated industry captains. Drought has plagued the nation these last three years, and with the endless problems of the Earth Kingdom colonies, food shortages are becoming more common. Starving workers are useless workers, after all, but it's difficult to make the rich see much past their own plates.

And other concerns will soon bubble over: the academies will be preparing to reopen for the season. The national education reform is nearly two years old, and its results are uncertain. Mai had led the campaign for its passage herself, and its failure will reflect upon her.

The cultural minister will want attention, as well. The nation's recent spiritual revival means greater involvement from the Fire Sages—there will be feasts and festivals to plan, sacrifices to arrange, rituals to study and perform.

The summer will be upon them quite quickly, and plans must be made, before any well-meaning intervention. A review, perhaps, or a grand memorial and remembrance must be publicly considered and then privately, politely dismissed.

The carriage pulls level with the inner city's gate, and Mai holds her breath as they pass beneath its red arch.

To the left is the public temple, where she was made Fire Lady in great ceremony, less than a year after the end of the war. The wedding itself had been held inside the palace, opened for the first time to all Fire Nation citizens. There had been only one assassination attempt, that she was aware of, circumvented by the Avatar and the rest of his motley band.

The marriage had been overall an intelligent move, if somewhat alienating to their allies. King Bumi sent only half an envoy, no doubt in protest over Mai's connection to the overthrow of Omashu during the war. The Earth Kingdom delegates were lukewarm to her ascension at best, but the marriage had been a necessary balm to placate the local nobility's stung pride.

The people had been directionless and reluctant to move on from the lost war, and those first swift reforms had thrown the royal court into disarray. Most of Ozai's inner circle joined him in prison or happily faced the executioner, but his lower-level functionaries—the mindless cogs like Tomiko—were willing to trade even the last vestiges of their dignity simply to assure their continued existence.

It would have been more prudent, perhaps, for the new Fire Lady to be an Earth Kingdom woman. Had Bumi an eligible heir, or that earthbender girl, Toph Beifong, been a bit older, Mai would have suggested the match herself. But the Avatar would certainly have fought such a move, with all his harping on about keeping the nations separate.

Separation itself has been the root of all their ills, to Mai's eyes.

The carriage jolts over a crack in the paving stones, and the attendant is quick to adjust the dislodged blanket.

Nobility never responds to change with much enthusiasm or interest, so Mai had been careful. It was tradition for the Fire Lord to spend a few years finishing his youthful affairs before providing the nation an heir: time allowed for adjustment, and if necessary, a quick and bloodless coup. Ozai had been the obvious exception, with both children born so soon into the marriage—but his ascension had not been assumed.

So Mai had employed the arts imparted from midwife to mother to daughter, had kept a careful balance in the court of new blood and old money, had substituted for knives with quiet smiles and withering little glares.

For most of the carriage's journey, she has kept her eyes fixed forward but now spares a swift glance from side to side. The upper streets are more empty than she expected. A few small groups, of women gathered beneath wide parasols and of solemn-faced men with arms clasped behind their backs, move languorously between the villas. The attendant faces away, smiling.

She will have some immediate concerns, of course: the ladies-in-waiting, the courtiers, the artists seeking patronage. Mai will have to hold some sort of party—low-key, quiet, a few hundred gathered to the palace. Not a celebration, exactly, but a muted gallery. A play, perhaps, if the Ember Island Players can be summoned before the end of the season.

She will have to bank on favors, on pity, on the good will of women who would sooner see her suffer and die than return. The colonies' rebellion will have no doubt soured some, and _there_ will be yet another task, another plate to keep spinning above her head.

The plans themselves are exhausting—thoughts alone enough to tighten her chest, to pull down her heavy eyelids—but necessary, if only for the distraction.

She will not think of Zuko.

Or rather, she will refuse to wonder at his silence, to imagine over and over the look on his face when she steps into the throne room. She will not think of the cold trapped in their bed, of the feel of him against her, inside, between her hands and wrapped in her arms.

She was deliberate in sending no notice. Rejection cannot come to those who refuse even to ask.

Mai is powerless against herself, however, flooded suddenly with memory of her last return: the quiet march from the cemetery, all those long months ago.

She kept three paces behind Zuko, a tradition they had never before observed, flanked by the solemn-faced attendants. The people formed a solid-walled corridor along both sides of the boulevard, blindingly white, almost glowing beneath the midday sun. Zuko moved slowly, each hollow footfall echoing between the silent buildings, shoulders back, eyes ahead. He ascended the palace steps quickly and disappeared into the shadows gathered beneath the main doors. He did not look back.

Mai stares down the approaching palace and attempts to still her shaking hands. The attendant hasn't noticed, mindlessly gazing out the window.

There is no way to predict Zuko's mood, and no way to avoid the attempt. He could be furious, remorseful, elated, concerned—worst of all, indifferent. He could look at her with those sweetly empty eyes, welcome her return with a few pointless words, and return to his duties. Silence would be more welcome—if he is making the effort to not speak to her, then at least she is worth the effort at all.

And now the meeting itself consumes her thoughts: in refusing to think of it, she lacks plans or preparations. They will not be allowed the privacy of a quiet bedroom reunion—he will be mid-meeting, perhaps, but either way the throne room will be full of ministers and lower-level functionaries. Courtiers lolling about the terraces and corridors will be drawn in, eager to consume the approaching gossip, perhaps even furious, languishing at their lack of recent attention.

She must appear both humbled and aloof, conciliatory for her absence and disaffected by its length. Her attire is appropriate, at least, muted and demure, lacking any ornamentation but the traditional topknot piece. She will move with an unpracticed slowness, hands clasped before her and concealed beneath her sleeves.

If she is successful, it might encourage a wave of extended vacations among the less creative sycophants, who are always happy to jump on a trend.

Something like a smile flits across her mouth. Zuko has no patience for these maneuvers—he was lucky she had been released from prison so quickly, or his coronation might as well have served for a memorial.

He will have neglected all of it, certainly. Years of her efforts, shoring up support, weaving alliances and interests into the tapestry of functional government—Zuko was only ever a soldier and remains trapped in the routine of attack-push-retreat. Governing is hardly a zero-sum game.

“My lady,” the attendant says, with the pointed air of one repeatedly ignored, “we have arrived.”

And so they have: the attendant folds away the blanket, and a pair of coachmen wait to offer their helping hands. Mai pauses at the bottom step, allowing the attendant to arrange the trailing cloak and then assume her silent place behind.

The murmurs follow her up, along with a wave of bows and curtsies—a tide of enforced politeness delivering Mai to her husband's doorstep.

The carriage has chased sunset through the streets, and now the sun roosts at the roof's apex, washing the grey palace in oranges and reds. Her every step is careful, pulling up one foot, planting it, pulling up the next, avoiding the folds of fabric rolling over her shaking legs.

Mai chances a brief glance, when she has reached the half-mark, and quickly covers the falter in her gait. A silhouetted figure awaits her, arms crossed. The profile is all wrong, though, but her heart can't seem to decide whether it wishes to stop or burst from her chest.

“General Iroh,” she says, mounting the last step and bowing low. “The palace is honored by your presence.”

“Dear Mai,” he replies, gently pulling her upright for a hug. “How many times must I ask? Call me _Uncle_.”

He takes her arm, folding her hand between both of his and turning them to face the palace.

She draws in a careful breath, eyes ahead, face composed.

“Is he waiting?”

“To welcome you home,” Iroh says, smiling. Mai nods, feeling the weight of his arm against hers, and they step inside together.


	2. The Return

** The Return **

Iroh's pointed glare draws Zuko back to the meeting, and he is reminded, briefly, of the petulant child he once was: sighing, reluctantly pulling his gaze from the windows set high in the throne room walls. It is not nearly as close to sunset as he had hoped.

“My lord?”

His advantage, of course, is that no one would dare call him out for the inattention.

“Again,” he says, and the agricultural minister, with an apoplectic squeak, begins his speech over. It's a simple request—something about grain—and Zuko grants it with a quick nod. Iroh leans across the throne's arm while the ministers shuffle about below.

“Perhaps some tea will encourage your focus,” he says quietly.

“I'm tired,” Zuko replies with a begging frown. “Haven't I done enough for one day?”

“No,” Iroh says. “Now sit up straight.”

It is almost worth disobeying to see his dear uncle's indignation, but Zuko smiles instead and assents, drawing up his shoulders, fixing his most commanding gaze upon the next supplicant.

The fatigue isn't an exaggeration, but nearly a year's worth of dereliction will require quite a bit of making up, and Zuko is grateful for the little corrections and guidance Iroh has provided these last months, the hand constantly at his elbow, the slow footsteps plodding so close behind his own, the warmth beside him during evening meditation.

Satisfied by his effort, Iroh turns back to the assembly, hands resting on his knees. Almost unthinkingly, Zuko mirrors his pose.

He _should_ be paying more attention. Although the world did not collapse in his absence, the Nation's problems did not pause. The agricultural minister's interest extends far beyond a simple shipment of grain—already this spring is proving more dry than the last, which itself was more dry than the spring before. The Earth Kingdom will feed itself first, which means steady shipments cannot be relied upon for trade or sustenance.

For decades the Fire Nation's farmland has given way to factories, with its field laborers converting to manufacturers or miners. Their dependence on the colonies for food had been nearly untenable during the war and is quickly proving a source of economic danger in its aftermath. Even Zuko's recent work against the rebels has not been enough to quiet the growing unrest.

These concerns are nothing new. Almost from the very beginning of his reign, Zuko has approved and promoted a number of incentives to encourage the farmers' return to their fields, but the people are reluctant to give up their new lives. The cities, though increasingly crowded and dirty, are infinitely more glamorous than herding koala-sheep and plowing fields. So the countryside continues to pour into the slums, polluting the rivers and ruining what little infrastructure Ozai had bothered to fund.

Which is precisely what the urban minister is blathering on about now.

“My lord, I fear the state of even our beautiful capital city in the next few years, if we do not act.”

“What are your thoughts?” Zuko asks, nodding towards the commercial minister.

“For once, my esteemed colleague and I are in agreement, my lord,” Jirou says, bowing. “This largesse cannot last. Instead of war machines, our industry focuses on frivolities—trinkets and toys are no basis for a strong economy. Education and opportunity will do a great deal of service to the people, but I fear the unresolved situation in the Earth Kingdom may prove our undoing.”

This is what he expected, but not at all what he wanted to hear. Zuko glances at Iroh, who clearly shares his concerns but says nothing.

“We have recommendations, my lord,” the urban minister says hesitantly. “Minister Takashi—”

The staid diplomat rises with a certain dignified lethargy at his mention. He's almost more tortoise-snail than man, shuffling forward from the edge of the circle, gathering his strength to bow.

“My lord,” he begins gravely. “We have often before discussed these problems and dismissed them, for another day—”

His low rumble is broken by the opening doors, and Zuko is, inappropriately, grateful to the footman who comes sprinting up to the dais, bowing, breathless.

“The lady, my lord,” he says. “She has returned.”

For a moment, Zuko cannot breathe and wishes no one else would, out of respect. The ministers are wise enough to become suddenly very interested in the floor or their hands, but the rest of the room explodes in whispers.

“What?” Zuko says weakly, on reflex.

“The Fire Lady Mai has returned to the capital, my lord,” the footman says, rising. “Her carriage approaches the palace.”

Zuko nods, numbed, and Iroh appears at his elbow, solemn-faced.

“I will greet her, Fire Lord,” he says, and sweeps down the dais steps before Zuko can protest.

He is almost furious. Mai is, after all, _his_ wife, and it is within his right to demand privacy and the privilege of seeing her first. But then a flash of light catches his eye—the dying sun bouncing off the headdress of some admiral's whispering daughter—and Zuko returns to himself, to his robes and his ministers and his title. Iroh had been deliberate in using it, reminding Zuko what is to be expected of him in this room, as a nation's leader, not a nervous husband.

Mai has returned. Zuko presses his fingertips into the armrests of his throne, until his knuckles glow bright white and his wrists tremble with the effort. But he has no further opportunity for brooding—the crowd near the door parts, pulling Zuko to his feet, tongue thick in his mouth.

Iroh and Mai approach, arm-in-arm, slowly, with all the required regality. The courtiers dip at the shoulders and waist, silenced by her proximity. Mai doesn't spare even one of them so much as a glance. Iroh unwinds himself from her hands, bowing, as Mai sinks to her knees, head bent respectfully.

“My lord, I present Fire Lady Mai,” Iroh says softly.

“Fire Lord,” she begins, steady. “I beg forgiveness for my absence.”

She is not the woman he said goodbye to those long months ago. Pregnancy had softened her, but now Mai is all angles, stiff-shouldered, anchored by the ritual. She is so much smaller than he remembers, and there is something almost fragile in her frame—as though she was long ago composed of thin paper and rests now, moments from collapse.

“Your return is welcomed,” Zuko says, voice strong but strange to his own ears. Mai stands steadily. Iroh's face is unreadable at this distance. “You must be tired.”

He receives a brief flurry of furtive, questioning looks from the crowd, but Mai doesn't move. She cannot leave until dismissed and so waits, hands hidden within her sleeves, eyes on the floor.

“The lady has had a long journey,” he says, gesturing for one of the many servants ringing the room. “Escort her to the apartments. Attend to her needs.”

Someone bows at the order, and Mai is swept away from him again.

The crowd contracts around her absence, ministers filtering back into his vision as he resumes his seat. Takashi shuffles back into place with a phlegmy, offended cough.

“My lord, may I continue?”

Zuko barely nods.

Mai is home. More than half a year since they had last stood together, white-clad, sharing one unhappy kiss on the docks before she climbed aboard a ship and disappeared from his life. He could easily trace her wandering path on a map: Azula, Ty Lee, her parents, and now here, _home_ , back to him.

In reflection, he is burning with questions, but it would be a lie to say he had thought of her every day since their parting—even to say that she had never been far from his mind. Thoughts of Mai were, for so long, inextricably poisoned by memories of their dead daughter, and all his focus these last few months has been inward, rebuilding himself slowly from the winter's gloom.

He is suddenly conscious of Iroh's stare, but his uncle offers no admonishment.

“No,” Zuko says, interrupting Takashi's speech with a sharp wave. “This will wait. We are adjourned for the day.”

In a cloud of bows and murmurs, the ministers depart. Iroh remains while all around them the throne room empties and refills with patrolling guards and meandering courtiers. Their combined chatter is nothing more than the buzz of insects.

“What are you thinking, nephew?” Iroh asks gently.

“I don't know.”

Zuko returns his look at last and offers a small smile.

“I can't quite seem to focus, Uncle.”

As is custom, the evening meal is announced, and Iroh leads him to the grand dining hall, where they eat and exchange pleasant words with the ministers and a rabble of provincial nobility. Zuko says very little, picking over his meal, lost inside himself.

He should be making a greater effort—the men seated around his table paid dearly for the privilege, some traveling weeks just to bow and scrape in person. But he is tired, too tired for more than the most vague of courtesies. At his side now, Iroh is similarly detached, forgoing his usual jocularity for silent contemplation of his teacup. He looks up, meeting Zuko's eyes, but Zuko can make nothing of his expression.

He has grown accustomed to this odd bachelor's life, with only this uncle for company, day in and day out. More than anything, the routine has helped him to heal, to place his pain in context and push him inexorably onward. Mai's return is shattering to this system—he is grateful, at least, that he did not lose his composure completely. He cannot help looking towards the door, hopefully, but she does not make an appearance for the entirety of the meal. His invented excuse was partially truth, then. A proper reunion must wait, but he has grown impatient, and his desire for her company could almost be mistaken for a physical ache.

So he is tired, desirous, but not particularly hungry, though he forces himself to finish at least half of his serving before he sighs and rises, drawing the rest of the room to its feet.

No excuses are necessary—he is the Fire Lord, after all. Still, Zuko makes a point of wishing certain men a good evening. Takashi's offense at his earlier treatment evaporates in the face of such unexpected personal attention.

“Perhaps tomorrow, my lord,” he says, bowing as deep as his old bones will allow.

“Perhaps,” Zuko agrees.

He will at least be permitted to walk to his apartments alone. Iroh will remain in the hall to extend any further apologies, offering Zuko a quiet good night.

“Remember the distance,” he whispers, and Zuko nods, as though this command makes any sort of sense.

The apartments are dark when he enters, save for the fire slowly dying in the grate. Mai is already asleep, her familiar curves sharp against the darkness, curled on her side, facing away from the door. He hadn't put much thought towards her absence, but faced with her sudden presence, Zuko understands suddenly how dearly he had missed her and smiles.

Quietly as he can manage, he undresses, setting aside the robe and the topknot piece, each discarded layer leaving him lighter and yet more tired. He lifts the blanket delicately and slides beneath, trying to keep from jarring Mai. She seems to glow in the faint light, eyes closed, face smooth and empty. He cannot resist a touch, one finger reaching to slide a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

On contact, she flinches.

She is awake.

She is awake and doesn't want him to know, but can't stifle her terror, trembling beneath his hand, drawing in sharp, uncertain breaths. Her face is not smooth or empty at all, pressed flat, lips white with the effort of keeping still.

For a long moment, Zuko is frozen in place, one hand hovering above her side, his body twisted around hers, but then he releases her, rolling away.

He pulls the blanket to his chin and falls asleep staring into the fire.


	3. The Exhibition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is not compliant with _The Promise_ , but characters from the trilogy will appear (because I am terrible at naming OCs).

At first, Iroh merely observes.

In public, Zuko and Mai are the absolute picture of propriety: etiquette and courtesy woven around every word and gesture. Each day at dawn, Iroh sits between them and watches over his teacup as they exchange the barest of pleasantries and discuss, briefly, the coming day's events.

Iroh spends the mornings with Mai, walking the garden, discussing the arrangement of empty rooms. She remembers to address him as _Uncle_ , and even pretends that he will contribute anything useful to her tasks. They eat quiet lunches, alone, with the same young attendant pouring his tea and clearing away Mai's barely-eaten meals.

His afternoons are reserved for Zuko and the steady grind of governance. They usually have time to enjoy an evening walk before the stuffed formality of dinner, where he is seated at Zuko's left, with Mai at a quiet distance.

Very little happens in that first week: the urban minister challenges the commercial minister to an Agni Kai, King Bumi's newest ambassador passes out in a bowl of soup mid-dinner, and one of the provincial governors suggests a national holiday for carpet-weavers. Mai meets with the new architect, compiles a shortlist of patronage applicants, and reviews the war widows' fund. Zuko broods.

These public masks tell Iroh nothing—he is interested in the private silence, in the deliberate steadiness of Mai's stare, in the hesitation of Zuko's step.

“What did you mean?” he asks one evening, as they pass through the courtyard, after hours of meditative quiet. They are in transition, at sunset, between the throne room and the dining hall.

“I don't know what you are referring to, nephew.”

“That night. _Remember the distance._ What did you mean?”

Iroh glances, taking in Zuko's frown.

“Only that you and your wife have been apart for a long time, and that you should not expect things to be exactly as they once were.”

“I have no expectations,” Zuko says defensively. Iroh almost smiles.

Another week, another series of silent meals and contemplative walks. The palace plays host to an artistic exhibition: those painters, sculptors, composers, playwrights, and lyricists who managed to pass the first inspection have arrayed the finest of their wares in the eastern wing's grand reception hall, awaiting Mai's examination. Iroh accompanies the little selection committee, mostly out of morbid curiosity.

The cultural minister, Osamu, acts as docent, ushering them between the displays. He is only slightly more dignified than a carnival barker: tall red hat substituting for hair, braided goatee tucked into his belt, sleeves sliding to his elbows as he prods and parades forward yet another confused young entertainer.

They start with a boy who, with a push from Osamu's impatience, stammers out a short description of his arrayed canvases.

“I see,” Mai says slowly. The painter wrings his hands, any leftover nervous prattle dying on his tongue. “But what _is_ it?”

“Whatever you would like it to be, my lady,” Osamu says quickly. “It is an _abstract_ piece.”

“Yes, he said that,” Mai replies with something of a grimace. Iroh mimics her posture, head tilting left, but this new position does not beget new meaning. “I only mean that there must have been purpose.”

She addresses the painter, who shrinks into his anxiety.

“You didn't simply spill red and orange paint on a canvas. You saw something. Felt...something?”

The painter, with the panicked glance of a wounded animal, spins to Osamu for help.

“Thank you, Aguri,” he says. “Shall we continue to the next, my lady?”

Iroh almost wishes to say something encouraging to him, but as they pass, the painter deflates with a relieved sigh, eyes on his polished belt buckle. Most of the exhibitors are victims of nepotism—children of the less talented and less favored members of the royal court, bribed or encouraged or coerced by desperate parents to make some sort of showing and grab the Fire Lady's attention. They are second sons and daughters of second sons and daughters, who boast few prospects and fewer interests, except perhaps for political self-preservation.

Mai looks comfortable here, for the first time since her return—Iroh watches her exchanges with Osamu from a few steps' distance. She moves at her own deliberate pace, largely ignoring the minister and his assistants nipping at her heels. She knows each artist—or rather, knows who _they_ know, who their parents are, who is most deserving of a smile or a snub. This is the world she was born into and raised to understand, as her mother's quiet accessory since infancy, like so many little noble girls before her.

She pauses and looks back to him.

“Uncle, what do you think?”

Her question, having silenced their wandering party, could be genuine, but it's difficult to tell behind that reserved public mask. His opinion is objectively immaterial—the decision is hers alone to make, one of the many domestic concerns reserved for the Fire Lady's attention. As a child, he had been witness to his mother's occasional misstep in this area, and her consequences.

Mai is watching him closely: his answer might be important to her, personally, due to his age, his familial closeness, his rank, or any myriad number of reasons she chooses to keep to herself. She blinks, politely waiting him out.

So Iroh considers carefully, looking again around the vast room. The exhibition's stiff formality has slowly decayed, friends and acquaintances filtering away from their own works, painters wandering to musicians, sculptors beckoning to poets.

Osamu laughs impatiently.

“Never ask a military man about art, my lady,” he says. “Perhaps we should—”

“What is with all the suns?” Iroh says, surprising himself.

Osamu looks almost pained, but dismisses his own frown with a wave.

“A creative fad.”

He flashes yellowed teeth in a smile to Mai, who does not return it.

“Ten years ago, it was _lilies_ , my lady. You know how fickle the fervent can be.”

“Those who do not understand the spirits are the first to condemn their followers,” Iroh says, quietly pointed.

“It is a _fad_ ,” Osamu repeats icily. “A passing fancy, General. For centuries the Fire Sages have safeguarded the Nation, and it is _only_ through their wisdom that we find enlightenment.”

“I wouldn't say that to the Avatar,” Mai says with a quirked brow. “Though you are right, Uncle.”

Hidden before by its ubiquitousness, the motif assaults them now from every corner: beams, rays, golden glows, the cosmos personified as flowers or flat, smiling faces. The other popular theme is Mai herself, an uncompromising appeal to vanity that does not exist. In one particularly garish rendering, Mai stands with arms stretched upwards, her wedding finery glinting beneath an orange orb.

“No painters,” Mai sighs. “We've had one already.”

“And a fine choice he was, my lady,” Osamu says quickly—a polite lie. Iroh snorts. “But you are right. Variety is the soul of—”

“A poet, perhaps. An orator, in the classic tradition. Whatever happened to Yutaka? He was always good for a laugh.”

“Executed, my lady,” Osamu says. “For sedition.”

“Right.”

She stops at the end of the hall and looks back, despairingly disinterested.

“I want a playwright,” she decides. “A comedian, a satirist—the palace could use some levity, don't you agree?”

She doesn't wait for confirmation, scouring the row of waifish writers, with their posters and playbills, and selects a girl slouched alone at the far end of the hall.

“You,” Mai says, and the girl straightens under inspection. Her arms remain crossed over her chest. “Do you write?”

“I've been known to wet a brush now and then.”

“Mind your tongue!” Osamu snaps, furious. “You are speaking to—”

“She knows to whom she speaks,” Mai says, voice firm and low.

“You wouldn't like what I write,” the girl says defensively.

“I might surprise you.”

It is the closest to amusement Iroh has ever seen in Mai—only one genuine smile, long ago at the wedding, and now this: a flash behind her thin grey eyes. Mai stares the girl down, but she doesn't flinch. Finally, Mai nods to the poster the girl slouches before, a simple ink rendering of three figures, features rudimentary and exaggerated.

“What of this?”

“It's nothing.”

“No one writes nothing,” Mai says. The girl chews her lip briefly and then shakes herself from it.

“Comedy of errors,” she says, jaw set in defiance. “Meddling nobles try to prevent their son from marrying a girl outside his station, and the servants revolt and take over the house.”

Mai says nothing, scanning the poster, hands still and hidden.

“I am Kori,” the girl says, almost grudgingly.

“Daughter of Morishita, the mayor of Yu Dao. Your mother is Earth Kingdom.”

“I have claim to citizenship through my father's blood,” Kori says quietly.

And here the mask vexes Iroh once more: Mai, immovable as a great oak, does not reply, studying, looking neither at the girl nor back to the waiting entourage.

“Fire Festival is midsummer,” she says at last. “I expect to laugh.”

At lunch, Mai has returned to her usual detachment, passing her chopsticks through the bowl of rice and vegetables but never raising a bite to her lips. All his attempts at conversation fall flat—she answers in one or two words, until the pretense clearly becomes too much, and then she bows her head, hands folding up in her lap.

“I believe the Fire Lord is waiting for you, Uncle.”

Iroh stays relatively quiet through most of the ministers' speeches. Osamu, oddly, mentions nothing of the morning's business or of his public snub, and they adjourn early. Extra time for a walk, so Zuko agrees to leave the confines of the palace, wandering the streets, flanked by heavy-set guards.

“A colony girl?” Zuko repeats, frowning. “Why?”

“Her parents probably sent her to the capital for culture. It is hard, out in the colonies, so far away from the academies and the court.”

“No, I meant why choose _her_ for patronage?”

“I would imagine that she liked the girl.”

“A playwright,” Zuko says, shaking his head. “Whatever happened to Yutaka?”

“Executed. We were in the south.”

“Right.”

Zuko is much less of a mystery to him than Mai is. Iroh has spent years dedicated to the study, of course, from the boy's infancy through his troubled teens to now, with his still-uncertain reign and his difficult marriage. Which is not to say that the study itself had been particularly arduous—his dear nephew could never be credited with an overabundance of emotional control. Even now he huffs and sighs, that permanent frown fixed firm, as they pass through the evening's light crowd.

Two little girls approach, offering up a pair of yellow paper flowers.

“For you, Fire Lord.”

The taller child steps forward, nervous eyes averted.

“Thank you very much,” Zuko says, with perfect sincerity, smiling and rewarding each girl with a gold piece.

It is vanity to take credit for this particular transformation—this mask of divinity and poise which descends, and his at times flighty, morose, self-possessed, and frustrating nephew becomes the noble, judicious Fire Lord. The transition is effortless and, in many ways, unsettling. As Zuko returns to him, flowers in hand, Iroh watches the frown return, the hollows beneath his eyes deepen, the angle of his shoulders drop.

“It's just not like her,” he says, handing Iroh the flowers and pushing onward. “To be so...thoughtless in her selection.”

“For a companion?” Iroh says plaintively, examining the gift. They are not flowers at all—tiny stylized suns, like lanterns on a string, with tiny careful characters dancing around the edges in a corona of blessing.

“More than a companion, and you know it, Uncle!” Zuko snaps, and then sighs. “Of all things—a _colony_ girl, when I just—”

He contains his frustration in clenching fists, walking just fast enough to keep Iroh a little winded.

“You could always ask her yourself, you know.”

“I know,” Zuko agrees, much too quickly. “I just don't want it to seem like I'm...interfering. The Fire Lady has her sphere, and I mine.”

“Zuko.”

He stops at last and turns back, apologetic.

“Nothing's wrong, Uncle. Like you said. We just need some time, and everything will go back as it was.”

He pulls an expression which might pass for a smile, and this decides it for Iroh. Zuko forges on ahead, skirting the circle of light spilling out from the market gate, while Iroh gently tucks the paper suns into his belt.

Enough observation—direct intervention is obviously necessary.


	4. The Gallery

** The Gallery **

Xun Wu's house is set against a backdrop of dark, overgrown trees—someone ambitious or misguided had clearly advised him that a more natural look for the garden would better complement the house's traditional rigidity, but instead, the vegetation leers over the road and seems about to devour the estate whole. Mai frowns at the approach, as the greenery looms above the carriage.

Perhaps it's meant to invoke the caldera. Some of the more favored officers have earned houses just within the crater wall's cool embrace—although any allotment of land sitting unused is something to be respected, proximity to the palace has always been the ultimate measure of a nobleman's worth. Xun Wu, though established and cultured and assimilated well in the modern court, has not yet distinguished himself as anything more than an old purse.

Mai leans quickly away from the window, as the carriage rounds the estate fence.

The entire household is arranged to welcome her: Xun Wu and his willowy wife bow at the intersection of their servants' stiff ranks, smiles so wide she imagines their faces will split open like overripe melons. A young, pimply footman—face scrubbed red and hair glinting with perfumed grease—offers his gloved hand to help Mai step down onto the freshly-swept drive.

“Our house welcomes the honor of your visit, my lady,” Xun Wu says, bowing again as she approaches. The attendant angles the parasol between them, keeping the bright sun from Mai's eyes.

Mai nods at the boilerplate greeting, looking down one line of servants and then the other, finding Da Min's smirk at the far end. He is the only one to meet her eyes, with a brief wink, before joining the line of respectfully bent heads.

“If it pleases you, my lady,” Xun Wu says, addressing the hem of her robe, “we have prepared a light meal and some cool refreshments inside.”

“It pleases me,” Mai says, biting down her own impolite smile.

She sits patiently through most of the meal, eyes trained on her bowl, eating just enough not to be rude. Xun Wu has placed her on his left, Min on his right, and his wife across the table. While he speaks, Mai nods and replies and sometimes sighs, studiously avoiding Min's stare.

Reacquaintance, it seems, will always reduce them to children—six years old, shuffled among the adults, each trying to pull a more ridiculous face, to better exaggerate the mannerisms of their neighbors, in valiantly silent hope of forcing the other to break and laugh first. Mai lost frequently in the beginning, but a few instances of her father's stinging hand across her cheek had hardened her, slowly creating a collected calm to usher her victories. Min could afford to lose more often, as the adults thought him a budding comedian, enjoying even at their own expense.

Xun Wu is oblivious to his mockery—to most things, really, chewing and chatting through every bite, referencing gossip that is months old and making ungenerous jokes only his wife is thoughtless enough to laugh at. He understands, on some level, that his time is limited, but he's trying much too hard. His desperation for Mai's approval is undignified, and Min does his best to make her courtesy difficult, shooting surreptitious looks over the soup, grimacing when Xun Wu's head has turned away, putting all his subtly refined effort into breaking her composure.

At last, it is over—Xun Wu spears a few hunks of mango on his plate with the tip of a dull knife, sated.

“I hope our home has found your satisfaction,” he says, and Mai suppresses an eye-roll.

“As much as I expected.”

For a moment she relishes the opportunity to rise and break the meal at her own discretion—a privilege denied her within the confines of the palace, where she must sit in silence over her unfinished bowl until released. But in this room, she stands, and Xun Wu nearly chokes on his knife in supplication, leaping to his feet.

“I thank you for the graciousness of the meal,” Mai says. “But I have business with Da Min.”

Min leads her, at a respectful distance, through the house's dull orange corridors, his face folding around a wide grin. She says nothing to him until the door of his studio has closed behind them, with the attendant on the other side.

“You are aware that I can order your execution without so much as a summary trial.”

“If I have offended, my lady, I do so _deeply_ apologize.”

She will not reward him for it, so he smiles for them both.

“Fire Lady,” he says, serious now. “It is an honor to entertain your presence in my gallery.”

He bows deeply, sweeping out one arm to encompass the disordered whole. Canvases are stacked six-deep in places, some painted, some blank, while rolls of silk gather indelicate dust beneath the windows. She can see, beyond the makeshift barrier of a curtain, what must be his bed, littered with jars of powder and pigment.

“It's nothing impressive,” Min says, meaning the room itself. “I think it used to be a broom closet.”

She turns back from the inspection, frowning.

“You deserve better.”

“Anything's a downgrade from the palace,” Min says with a shrug, and then, wincing, hurries to cover. “Not that I'm—I only mean, I wasn't ready for such elevation. This is where I should have been.”

“Are you insulting my taste?”

“Of _course_ not, my lady,” he says, playfully scandalized. “The Lady's taste is _unimpeachable_. Only I must say your selection was just a bit...well, _lacking_.”

He deserves a smile for that, but she directs it to a row of finished works tacked haphazardly to the wall.

“I've a playwright now. Have you heard?”

“Yes, yes, it all trickles downhill, eventually, even to here. A _colony_ girl.”

“I suppose we're all downgrading.”

There's no order to the gallery—an old ink drawing from their school days half-covers one of the commissions from just last spring: a stylized map of Omashu she had intended to present King Bumi as balm for his ever-wounded pride.

“Still,” Mai says, tracing around the unfinished city walls, “I'm sorry to have ruined your debut.”

“You had other concerns,” Min says softly.

Up and down her finger roams, through the system of slides and lifts, from the gate to the palace balcony to the tiny circular emptiness of wells and trees. Min closes the distance between them, hesitantly.

“I never got a chance to say it, back then, but Mai, I...I'm so sorry. For your loss.”

Informal—a serious breach of propriety, to omit the honorific, when her bare name is to be reserved for close family and then only in private, away from the malleable ears of court and servants. Min watches her with an alarming openness, and she feels for a moment like a little girl again, twelve years old, grieving a loss she could not yet understand.

She turns away from his affection but tempers it with a quick touch to the back of his hand.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. He nods, and then looks down. She feels the withdrawal this time, the hardening behind her eyes, the forced flatness of her voice. “But I didn't come all this way for condolences.”

“ _All this way_?” Min repeats, grinning, always happy to help her chip away the tension.

“It's a long drive.”

“My lady, I'm beginning to think your visit's only purpose is to mock me.”

“That's not too far off the mark,” Mai says, shrugging, and Min laughs. “Although I'm actually here to collect.”

“You don't want a flower?”

He gestures towards the occupied easel and a collage of paintings set to dry in the sun, glinting with saccharine scenes of blushing meadows and horrifyingly bright bouquets.

“At least it's not...too laborious?” Mai offers.

“You flatter me,” Min says, exaggerating his eye-roll. “I'm afraid my generous host was so shocked at being able to afford the largesse of patronage, he doesn't quite know what to ask for. A simple man with simple tastes.”

“You speak this way about all your patrons?”

“Only whoever's current.”

He smiles at her again.

“But you're here to collect.”

He won't bore her with a trip to the storeroom, sending out for tea and arranging a pile of cushions beside the easel before disappearing through the door. The attendant enters in his absence, setting the tea to brew and calling a footman to open the windows wide, to little purpose—the curtains hang limp in the lack of breeze.

Mai has no interest in leisure and so wanders, pacing the room from end to end. The flowers are garish and overabundant, but here and there she can see pieces of her old friend peeking through, in a flourish of mismatched color or a series of ghoulishly asymmetrical stems.

“Give a moment,” Min says, banging the door open with some stacked boxes tipped against his chest. “Most of the old stuff got mixed together in the move.”

From a table cluttered with paints and sculpting knives, Mai extracts a slightly battered scroll. Two yellow paper suns fall to the floor as she stretches it open.

“Min, the sun cult?” she says, shaking her head. “How disappointingly middle class.”

“They've got little girls in the market,” Min says, shrugging, tossing aside the first box's lid. “Sweet, smiling, joyous. A very effective campaign—and the material's interesting. You should give it a look.”

“Yes, that's _just_ what the court needs. Fire Lady joins the drum circle.”

“It's good stuff,” Min insists, as she circles back to the easel. “Like that moon cult up north.”

“I don't think the Fire Sages will appreciate me looking to the Water Tribes for spiritual guidance.”

“Don't tell me they've tamed you at last.”

He shuffles through the rolled canvases and carefully folded tapestries while Mai watches from the cushions, and a pair of interchangeable footmen bustle in and out with more crates and chests.

“Min, you know better than that,” she says, drawing her hands up into her sleeves. “Give a little ground now, so you can take more later.”

“Yes, well, I was never much of a strategist.”

Nested in his own pile, Min sighs his way through the tedious task of sorting. The footmen deposit the last of his work—a massive canvas carefully wrapped in protective cloth—just inside the door and then bow before withdrawing.

“You'll have to tell me,” Min says, utterly absorbed. “I can't quite remember everything that's yours.”

“What about this?” Mai says, standing, approaching the covered canvas. Min's voice catches in panic as she tugs aside the cloth.

“No, that's not—”

The covering falls away, and Mai steps back.

“It's not finished,” Min says quietly.

An impressive portrait unfolds before her, in that anachronistic style still so beloved within the court: every feature exaggerated by black outlines, mouths stern, robes ornate, almost grotesque in their bodily perfection. Zuko stands on the left, imposingly tall, right hand lifted with palm forward and fingers up, left hand open with fingers pointed down—both blessing the viewer and offering up the figure beside him: Mai herself, dwarfed by the fire and lotus motifs, balancing in concealed hands a bundle of red and gold silk. Two impossibly tiny hands unfold from the swaddling, right resting on left, palms upward, fingers open, and the body of a child takes shape behind their silhouette.

Only not a child—instead of a face, a white patch mars the otherwise-finished piece, as though someone had taken the flat of a knife and carefully, carefully scraped her away.

“It's not finished,” Min says again. “And you were never meant to—”

She feels the slight stirring of air: he steps closer, arm raised as though to push her away or cover the painting, but Mai is immovable, frozen, timeless, eyes darting across each brushstroke. She keeps the edge of the cover clutched tight against interference.

“He commissioned it, just after the announcement. It was supposed to be a surprise, to be finished quickly after the...after the birth. To be unveiled at the official court presentation, as a gift for you.”

Min scoffs, a quiet sound meant only for himself.

“Think that was the only time the Fire Lord spoke more than two words to me.”

The air is growing thicker, warmer, falling away from her lips in heavy bursts. He reaches forward, hand about to close over hers.

“I'm so sorry—I should've burned it.”

“No!”

What feels like a scream is little more than a whisper, but Min stops. She can see his uncertain profile at the edge of her vision.

“No,” she says again, evenly. “No, I want it finished.”

He begins to protest, but she sets her free hand on his arm.

“Please, I insist. You were commissioned. Finish it.”

“Mai, I—”

She meets his eyes, and smiles as gently as she's ever allowed.

“Please,” she says again. “As you said, it was gift. For me.”

The rest of the collection fits into two small crates, which the footmen return to pack away onto the carriage. The parasol makes its reappearance, angled behind this time, as she makes the proper goodbyes to Xun Wu and his shiny wife.

The ride away is the perfect mirror of the approach: Mai rests back in the seat until the first turn, and then leans forward as the gate closes. She stares back at the house, at its greened overbite, as though the estate might disappear the moment she looks away. Somewhere inside, she imagines Min setting the portrait on his easel, palette in hand, gently saturating the paint with new life.

“It will be an early summer, I think, my lady,” the attendant says.

“Yes,” Mai replies shortly, and only her eyes move, flickering quickly to the girl, but it is too late. When she looks back, the house is gone.

Only the treetops and sky remain, as far as she can see.


	5. The Festival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this update took so long. This chapter was, for some reason, extremely difficult to write, and I'm still not quite happy with it, but I just need to stop fussing over it and move on.

** The Festival **

The descent begins sometime mid-spring, but by the first day of summer, news has reached the capital and turned speculation to certainty: the government of Ba Sing Se has fallen. Again.

This time, at least, the coup is nearly bloodless, as the Dai Li seize control of the palace overnight and then gently sweep aside any protestation, installing their bought admirals and governors, so that within a matter of days, the whole continent falls in line, smooth as collapsing tiles. Zuko receives a letter from Toph detailing the entire affair with her usual terse irritation, about a week after, and watches his own court melt in the ensuing confusion. Admiral Makoto—the least war-mongering military minister he could find—is the first to suggest invasion, in a polite and roundabout fashion. Takashi is slow to disagree.

Toph's letter assures Zuko of the non-necessity of such preparations. The Dai Li have promised to honor all contracts and hold up under pressure: the scheduled shipment of grain arrives and is distributed with little fuss. Zuko is just foolish enough to assume that this is the end.

When reports start to trickle in from the colonies, he tries to dismiss them—although officially within the Earth Kingdom's sovereign purview, most of the mayors and governors still have influential friends within the Fire Nation. For about a month, Zuko cannot leave the palace without being accosted by politely concerned courtiers. So far, he is told, the Dai Li have been accommodating overseers, but there are... _questions_ about some of the smaller kings and governors. He hears _Omashu_ so often it ceases at times to be a word.

Even the approaching festival cannot grant him reprieve—the ministers don't appear to believe in leisure, especially in face of what they insist will be the escalation of another war, scheduling meeting after meeting to discuss every tiny new scrap of military gossip. As many of his days end after midnight as begin before dawn, so he begs off his uncle's evening walks and misses Tom-Tom's arrival completely. There's really no time to feel guilty about it, though, as he barely marks Mai's sudden absence.

One night, weeks into the whole mess, he manages to escape the ministers shortly after the evening meal, feeling his silent way along the corridors to his bedchamber. He finds it dimly-lit and pressed flat beneath a blanket of heat, occupied only by Mai's easily-startled attendant.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she squeaks, bowing twice. “I was gathering a few things for the Lady.”

“Where is my wife?” Zuko asks, gaze falling across the untouched bed. The fireplace is empty, and her vanity, an heirloom of his mother's, has been swept clean of its usual miscellaneous debris.

The attendant addresses the ground somewhere near his feet.

“The Lady's brother has had a few nightmares, and she thought it best to stay with him at night. Little boys, your lordship must know, so far away from home...”

Zuko grimaces but still nods, exhausted, plopping almost bonelessly onto the divan to toe off his tight boots.

“So long as it's only for the night, then,” he says around another yawn.

He means it as a joke, but the attendant hesitates at the door.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” she says, and scurries away into the dark.

He cannot find peace at the breakfast table, either—the ministers are banned from entering the royal residence without invitation, but Iroh certainly isn't.

“For the Fire Lady to have a guest _unwelcomed_ by—”

“He's been welcomed! So I didn't go and meet the ship. He's hardly a state dignitary.”

“He's your brother-in-law.”

“He's _seven_. Let them have some peace, will you? They're probably not even awake yet, and you'll have them trek across the palace for just a few moments' audience?”

Zuko winces at Iroh's raised eyebrow.

“I could always make them an appointment, in that case.”

“That's not what I meant, and you know it,” Zuko snaps. “Stop pestering me! I'm already late for the day.”

A confused sort of irritation prickles beneath his skin all morning, so Zuko sighs his way through the meeting, slouched on his cushioned throne at the head of the massive world map in what was once, long ago, the war room. Iroh slips in after an hour—clearly Mai doesn't care for his intrusion either.

“We may find purchase with King Bumi, my lord. His emissary is arriving early for the festival. We could take him aside to discuss this newest incursion.”

Makoto emphasizes his point with a sharp tap to the area outlying Omashu, shaded orange by a dedicated hand.

“Before or after he falls asleep on a bowl of fire flakes?” someone mutters, drawing a few small laughs. Zuko shoots a quick glare around the room, and they are silenced.

“Perhaps we could prevail upon you, General Iroh,” Takashi rasps. “Or at least, your friendship with King Bumi.”

“My friendship?” Iroh repeats dubiously.

“If the Fire Lord prefers, of course,” Takashi adds, dipping his head once and then struggling to bring it up again.

Zuko prefers nothing but silence, at the moment, and dismisses them. Iroh follows him out to the courtyard, without invitation, and settles himself beneath a withering dogwood tree. The servants know to bring tea, and one of them is enterprising enough to set up a pai sho board in the shade.

He ignores this—shutting out his uncle and all the attendant noise. The yoke of his office—the outer robes and topknot piece and gauntlets and boots—falls onto the parched grass in pieces, until Zuko sweats in just his trousers and a loose shirt. He gathers his hands before him in a basic firebending kata, channeling the heat building in his chest outward to his fingertips.

“You should be making greater effort with Mai.”

His concentration flickers—beneath closed lids, Zuko's eyes flit briefly in the direction of Iroh's voice. His uncle has always had that particular gift for damaging any momentary calm.

“You said to keep my distance.”

“Was that what I said?” Iroh asks mildly. “I thought I was advising caution, not retreat.”

“Then be less cryptic.”

“She is your wife, Zuko.”

A wisp of flame escapes from his fingers.

“I'm _aware_.”

“You can't keep pretending that everything is alright.”

“I'm not discussing this with you!”

The nearest branches of the dogwood smolder gently, while Iroh merely sips his tea.

All day the palace is oppressive with heat, following Zuko from room to room, lapping his heels and curling tight around his throat. He spends most of the night staring at the ceiling, limbs spreading out to every corner of the empty bed, blankets thrown to the floor. The rising sun denies him sleep, and the next few days are lost in a humid fog.

Iroh agitates him from the periphery, but Mai is inaccessible—he sees her only in passing, at the far side of the courtyard, or in transition between sunset and dinner.

The Fire Festival is upon him suddenly, in a fury of arrivals and activities. Bumi's emissary is easily cornered on the first night, malleable to Takashi's rhetoric after a few cups of rice wine. While Mai manages the evening, Tom-Tom attached firmly to her hem, Zuko is shuffled away to the library with Iroh and a gaggle of eager ministers.

“We are _amenable_ ,” the emissary hiccups. “Of course we are. His Majesty King Bumi cherishes the close and unique relationship Omashu enjoys with the Fire Nation.”

“Of course, of course,” Takashi says. “We merely have concerns. Our people in the colonies—”

“ _Our_ people,” the emissary says firmly, sobered slightly. “Forgive me, Fire Lord. A party is no time to discuss such matters. I left my wife without company.”

He bows and stumbles out quicker than his drunken appearance should allow.

“What just happened?” Zuko demands, and no one has an answer.

“Perhaps again tomorrow...?”

“No.”

“Fire Lord,” Iroh says, almost warning.

“We're finished. Get out!”

They scurry back into the corridor, all except Iroh, who patiently folds his hands.

“Zuko—”

“I don't want to hear it! No more business!”

He stomps out before Iroh can say something sensible.

The festival officially begins tomorrow morning, so tonight is just a welcome, a formally informal gala in the grand reception hall. Zuko picks an empty spot at the far wall and stands, certain the guards will deter encroachment. They are mildly successful.

In between greeting courtiers he doesn't remember and dignitaries he's never met, Zuko watches the room. Bumi's emissary has cocooned himself within a crowd of Earth Kingdom visitors—his own attache, a few representatives of the northern provinces, and one dignified woman, who must be the emissary's wife. Takashi and Makoto circle like a pair of starved buzzard-wasps, but there is no penetrating that barricade.

He's too engrossed to notice Mai, who melts from the shadows, gently nudging Tom-Tom ahead.

“Good evening, my lord,” she says, and the bow is reflexive. “You missed the Ember Island Players.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“I made your excuses.”

She gives Tom-Tom another encouraging nudge.

“Mother told me,” Tom-Tom starts and takes a big breath, letting the rest out in a rush of nervousness, “to say I am very honored to meet you, Fire Lord.”

He addresses Zuko's boots, hands twisting in front of his awkward little body. Tom-Tom glances to Mai, as if for confirmation, and she nods.

“We've met before,” Zuko says. “Although you were very young.”

Across the room, Takashi is rebuffed for a final time and trudges back to the wine.

“Will you come with us to the festival tomorrow?” Tom-Tom asks. Zuko turns in time to see that Mai has followed his gaze, but she shifts quickly to a frown.

“The Fire Lord is very busy,” she says. Easily cured of his shyness, Tom-Tom seizes Zuko's hand.

“But you'll be at the temple?”

“Tom-Tom,” Mai warns, in a tone so much like his mother's that Zuko flinches.

“I'd love to go with you to the festival,” he says, smiling down at Tom-Tom.

“Really?”

“Well, what's the point of declaring a national holiday if I don't get to enjoy it?”

“You have other business,” Mai says, glancing away again. Zuko blinks.

“If you'd rather just the two of you—”

“It doesn't matter,” she says, in the same quiet tone.

“I don't want to intrude.”

“Come if you like.”

Tom-Tom's head whips back and forth between them.

“So,” he says. “Does that mean you're coming?”

“That's enough for tonight,” Mai says. “To bed with you.”

Tom-Tom lets go of Zuko and bows, properly, fist beneath flat hand, and then bounds happily after Mai.

The evening seems about to dissolve early, which even Zuko knows is not a good thing. With a sigh, he steps out of his corner, begrudging the effort wasted in flattery.

One of Zuko's first acts as Fire Lord had been to rid the office of most of its associated pageantry: no more veiled palanquins simply to cross the street, no more pointless monthly parades of pomp and circumstance, no more subjects bowing with faces pressed fearfully to the ground. He has been less successful in ejecting the courtiers.

A hundred of them occupy the palace during the day, roaming in packs of ten or twelve, like weasel-wolves, snapping and salivating at each other. They are rather akin to the barnacles he used to make Lieutenant Jee scrape off the bottom of the ship, latching onto the back of the carriages and clinging to Mai's wake wherever she wanders on the palace grounds.

Now he wades through an assorted stagnant pool of them, ladies and men bobbing on their heels in supplication or drifting in clouds of perfume and silk, like garishly painted birds, shrieking with laughter or murmuring behind fans. There is nothing really objectionable or offensive about them, except for the constant noise.

As Zuko moves through the room, he catches only snatches of conversation, orphaned punchlines and unanswered questions.

“Oh, how _perverse_.”

“Rather like a pet, don't you think?”

“It's a wonder she hasn't yet bought a leash.”

“The way she carts him about, for _display_.”

The sea of empty faces rolls towards the door briefly—Mai has reappeared. Her ladies-in-waiting form up ranks behind her, and Mai descends, working through the crowd almost in opposition to Zuko, stepping left when he goes right, back when he is forward, pausing when he is pulled to a stop.

He tries not to watch her so openly, chancing a quick look now and then, and is surprised to see her approach King Bumi's emissary. It's disconcerting, after years of public stoicism and private warmth, to see Mai in this courtly context, all delicate flattery and hidden grace. She manages what his ministers failed, piercing the diplomatic shell, drawing laughter from the emissary and his wife.

It is at this moment, of course, that Zuko himself is run down by Takashi and Makoto.

“It is not a total failure, my lord,” Takashi says. “King Bumi would rather treat with us than risk the Dai Li. We have been thinking of drafting some correspondence, with your approval, of course.”

“No more business tonight,” Zuko says, with a sharp smile. “Your thinking can wait until after the festival, if you haven't scared him off completely.”

“Excuse the intrusion, Fire Lord.”

Mai appears behind them, on the arm of the emissary, and bows.

“No intrusion, my lady,” Takashi says, bowing in return.

“Your daughters look lovely this evening, Minister.”

“A blessing, my lady.”

Takashi, thus neutralized, wanders off. Mai sets her cool gaze on Makoto.

“Admiral, you must show me to your wife. We haven't yet been introduced.”

“An oversight, of course.”

With an unrelenting firmness, Mai takes Makoto's arm and steers him back into the crowd, leaving the emissary smiling beside Zuko.

“If I may say, Fire Lord, you are a lucky man. I have never seen the like of your wife in all my years.”

“Neither have I,” Zuko says softly.

For a moment, they simply stand together and watch the dancers. The emissary—Zuko really _should_ remember his name—clasps his hands behind his back and hums.

“King Bumi is an old man,” he says, without preamble. “His age, his imprisonment, his deserting guard-captain—these things make him old _and_ cautious.”

“Omashu is well protected.”

“But not impenetrable. Your wife's father proved that.”

Zuko sighs.

“Is he always going to take my marriage so personally?”

“If he'd been eligible, I'm quite certain Bumi would have offered himself as bride.”

The emissary laughs at Zuko's look.

“A blessing the offer was never made, I suppose,” he says, and then sobers. “But I see you understand his fears.”

“I wish _he_ understood. Especially that I share them.”

“Were my advice sought,” the emissary says with a shrug, “I would humbly suggest the Avatar. Friendly faces beget friendly conversation. But after the festival, of course. There is never anything so pressing as a party.”

He turns to Zuko with a smile.

“Then I will consider seeking your advice. After.”

“I should be quite honored, Fire Lord.”

Confusion keeps him awake long after the gala has dissolved and the guests filtered out into the night. The rest of the household shares his exhaustion the next day, though, as the servants rouse everyone long before dawn.

In stiff ceremonial robes, Zuko climbs into the carriage behind Mai and Tom-Tom, the latter yawning the whole way down to the public temple. Iroh is just old and venerated enough to use his age as an excuse to sleep in.

Osamu meets them at the temple entrance, garbed in only the most ridiculous of his ritual outfits. His steepled red hat is far too tall to support its own weight, and more than once Mai has to silence Tom-Tom's unbecoming snicker with a sharp word.

The Fire Sages perform the traditional blessing with Zuko's apathetic participation. So much of the ceremony is a holdover from Ozai's reign—borderline worship of the Fire Lord as the personification of flame, which Zuko has never enjoyed or encouraged, but Osamu is an effective barrier to reform. Rage is no longer their fuel, but all Zuko's attempts at introducing Sun Warrior philosophy have fallen decidedly flat.

So instead, they collectively flounder through, opening the Fire Festival with a rather neutered blessing and invocation. Tom-Tom stays awake through the whole thing, and is rewarded with a sweet-roll on the carriage ride back.

“Everyone was wearing yellow,” he says. “Why?”

“It's a very popular color,” Mai replies, shushing him.

Iroh joins them for breakfast, making a show of his phantom back pain.

“But I'm well enough for the festival,” he says, winking at Tom-Tom.

“We'll be delighted for your company, Uncle,” Mai says, chopsticks walking the untouched valleys of her plate.

The morning's ceremonial robes are abandoned for lighter layers, and they forgo the carriage in favor of a leisurely walk down to the market, the main grounds for the festival. The streets are packed with revelers, children with floating ribbons, girls with flowers woven into their hair, boys snapping cherry bombs underfoot. Carriage or no, the courtiers have answered the clarion call of procession, at least a hundred painted men and women, swelling the crowd around them—everything bright and yellow and over-joyous.

Any such blatant display of nationalism is still somewhat unsettling to Zuko, but he returns his subjects' smiles and waves without reservation. The festival's old propagandist intent has morphed to a mechanism of unity among the people, a celebration of global culture rather than singular might. Down the boulevard, they pass a menagerie of foreign representation, flames tempered here and there with water and earth and air.

A pair of effigies guard the market gates: Aang on the right, festooned with lotus blossoms, and Zuko himself on the left, blanketed by those odd little paper circles. It's difficult to do more than move with the crowd, but Mai leads the small entourage away from a pair of little girls at the foot of effigies, who offer out the flowers and circles with perfect smiles.

Once inside, Zuko trails behind with Iroh, watching as the courtiers fan out among the commoners, and Mai and Tom-Tom wander, spreading her allowance equally among the various vendors.

“Lovely day, isn't it?” Iroh says, giving his parasol a little twirl. Zuko sighs. “And Mai seems to be enjoying herself.”

She does: holding Tom-Tom close with one hand, directing him between the carts, exchanging pleasantries with the awestruck crowd. She is not smiling, exactly—Zuko can't in all honesty recall the last time he has seen her smile—but she appears at least not unhappy, full of affection for her animated little brother.

“I suppose,” Zuko says, and it takes real effort not to frown.

The market in festival is everything he hates about public spaces—explosions of color and noise assault him from every angle, the chaos inescapable. Laughter and screeching, talk like the chittering of insects, the clang of music and the slamming of doors and windows. The scrape of a backing wagon wheel grinds across his teeth, and Zuko struggles to maintain composure.

Iroh is quick to abandon him—there's at least a dozen tea stalls nearby, brimming with all sorts of enticing new blends and imports—so diversion by conversation is out. He casts about among the crowd for something, _anything_ on which to focus, to center his burdensome hearing, but like last night's gala, he manages only snatches of exchange.

Two women, courtiers by their bright clothes and swarming servants, murmur beneath parasols.

“Oh, you _are_ unkind.”

“Nothing of the sort. It's sad, of course, but we should hardly begrudge her this little distraction. Three months—if she still _could_ , she would have, by now.”

“Did you hear she—?”

“Oh, nothing indelicate, please. Although, yes, I heard the same.”

“Our poor Fire Lord. Can you imagine?”

“What, having to climb up on _that_ every night?”

“No wonder he never sent for her. Probably considered it a vacation.”

Their laughter dissolves into the pop of firecrackers. Zuko twists around, seeking their faces, but finds only a sea of masks. A touch on his arm pulls him back, and there is Iroh, spicy tea in hand, grin slowly fading.

“What is it?” he asks. “What's wrong?”

But there is no chance to answer—Tom-Tom is pulling Mai into view, her trailing attendant burdened with packages.

“Find something you like?” Zuko asks, as warmly as he can, and Tom-Tom holds up a miniature tsungi horn.

“For you,” Mai says quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.

The rest of the royal entourage reforms at the amphitheater that evening—a pair of wide benches and a scattering of chairs, festooned with ribbon and red flowers, await them in a reserved box. Tom-Tom curls up against Mai while Zuko gives the memorized speech of welcome. The Ember Island Players bow, still nervous of their previous offenses, and begin the production.

Obligations complete, Zuko's mind drifts. Years of exposure had done little to cultivate interest before, but he has enough courtesy to applaud and laugh along with the crowd. Tom-Tom seems to enjoy the experience, but Mai—his dear, inscrutable Mai—sits straight, hands folded, motionless except for her attentive eyes.

She is more of a mystery than he has ever been willing to admit. She has always been a source of calm, but her work with the emissary last night—perhaps it was _her_ absence, more than his, that threw the court into such disarray.

Here, she is masked, on stage herself. The courtiers have arranged themselves below the royal box and cast surreptitious glances upward, moderating their behavior to match Mai's. Zuko glances and sees only that Mai has set an arm around Tom-Tom, but still remains unmoved, neither smiling nor applauding.

The two women from the market are among the watchers—to the left, Zuko can just make out their clothes and attendants. They observe the play in perfectly mimicked silence.

When it's over, the amphitheater waits their approval. Zuko looks to Mai: she is staring down at the gathered cast and crew, seeking out one. He follows the line of her gaze to a girl with blazing brown eyes, who stares boldly back.

“A lovely outing from our new playwright,” Iroh says. Without a word, Mai rises and quietly claps. With a sense of uncertainty, Zuko joins, and the crowd follows them both.

They are shuffled out into the night, cocooned by the guards, free momentarily of the courtiers. The air outside the amphitheater is somehow heavier, perfumed by smoke and overcooked meat. No one objects to taking the carriage back, so Iroh clambers in with Tom-Tom, and Zuko offers a hand to help Mai up. She is hesitant to take it.

Iroh interrogates Tom-Tom about his enjoyment, their laughter filling the empty carriage. Mai sits in silence, focused on her still hands. The back of Zuko's neck prickles, that nameless confusion welling up in his chest and closing his throat.

She meets his gaze once, for a long moment, and then looks away.

There is nothing behind her eyes. Nothing at all.


	6. The Terrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wonderful, amazing, awesome Anon gifted me a lovely drawing of Mai from the [first chapter](http://24.media.tumblr.com/38c5441af941510f959f512aa0d80a1d/tumblr_mjsffxZrhJ1qc5aj8o1_1280.jpg), for my birthday. Let me take this opportunity to encourage any and all art/mix/etc my readers may like to make for this fic. It fills me with warm, fuzzy feelings for all of you.
> 
> Also, [Grandfather and son](http://archiveofourown.org/works/163633) by Nele is basically my permanent headcanon for Zuko's birth.

**The Terrace**  
Selfishness consumes him in waking—nothing inside him wants to face this day, so he remains motionless, breathing evenly, maintaining the illusion for no one at all.

Here, in this contained privacy, he is free to indulge in exhaustion, in bitterness, in regret. Here, he can rage against a universe content to take and take and give nothing in return. Here, he can relish momentarily a well-hidden resentment at his need—or, rather, at everyone else's need of him. Here, Iroh can turn away, can shut his eyes against the encroaching dawn, can sigh and center the grief around his heart.

The servants will not disturb him. He is known, since his return, for never having need of them: rising well before dawn and their accompanying bells, meditating alone at his open window, cleansing himself and dressing unaided. For a time, he took their task of rousing Zuko upon himself, opening the royal apartments, gently pulling the broken boy from his empty bed and empty heart.

Zuko has less need of him now. He rises at the servants' bell, eats, attends his duty, and even makes time, when he remembers, for an evening walk. This recent ugly business with Ba Sing Se had induced a slight reversion—Iroh frowns at the memory of the lingering hollows beneath Zuko's eyes—but improvement was obvious, overall.

With effort, Iroh throws aside the thin blanket and sets both feet on the cool floor. There is a certain dryness in the air, in his throat, and already he can feel heat wafting in from the open terrace door.

He has indulged too long. When he returns from the washroom, the sun is up, and his attendant is fixing the bedclothes.

“Forgive me, General,” he says, bowing. “I assumed you had already left.”

“Forgiven, Kun,” Iroh says with a quick nod. “I am running behind today, it seems.”

“Sad days often have slow beginnings.”

They share a half-smile, as Kun, finished with the bed, moves towards the door, pulling the curtains as he goes.

“Shall I bring you some tea, General? On the terrace, perhaps.”

“No, no, I'll join the Fire Lord, as usual.”

“Very well, sir. The Fire Lord is taking breakfast in his chambers. I'll tell the dining room not to expect you.”

Kun pauses at the door.

“Forgive me, General, but there was some...business, waiting outside the apartments.”

“Not today,” Iroh says firmly. “Find someone to make the excuses.”

“Yes, sir.”

It is a short walk to Zuko's chambers, but Iroh takes his time.

The apartments, sectioned off from the rest of the palace by a veritable maze of passageways and doors, are arranged around the central courtyard. West is the grand royal apartment reserved for the Fire Lord. North belongs traditionally to the dowager, but is usually given to any ailing or abdicating relatives, such as Iroh himself. South is for guests, a series of small chambers stacking one after another into the recesses of the wing. East is the Lady's apartment, where Mai's little brother had stayed, where Mai herself has disappeared since midsummer.

A bell rings deep within, softly, as the palace rouses itself around Iroh's quiet footsteps. He can hear the faint echo of ladies whispering somewhere behind him, and Jing Li, the servant overseer, politely dismissing the thoughtless ministers somewhere ahead.

Zuko's bed is empty and neatly made when Iroh enters the room. He takes a moment to orient himself—a tiny breeze rustles through the curtains, and he is wreathed briefly in rolling silk flame—before he finds the open door and ventures out into the courtyard.

A small tea service and assortment of breads and fruit have been arranged on the private terrace, beneath the shade of an angled parasol. He was obviously expected—Iroh smiles at the two cushions and cups and plates, and seats himself facing out.

Zuko stands beneath an empty tree, flowing through some basic bending katas. With a hint of pride, Iroh notes the inclusion of water and earth forms in Zuko's movements: the old lessons have taken root and grown these last few years, despite the distance.

Iroh had never exactly intended to disappear into Ba Sing Se so completely—the Jasmine Dragon had survived his absence but still required some care, and he wanted at least a little peace. A year of war and pain, preceded by three years of worthless wandering, and before that two years of bottomless grief. He wanted rest. He _wanted_ the distance, had answered Zuko's letters reluctantly, weeks late.

Jing Li arrives with a fresh pot of water, bowing into Iroh's eye-line, scattering his thoughts.

“General,” he says, with an acknowledging bow.

“Good morning. The household is well?”

“The interlopers are dismissed,” he sniffs, taking up the empty kettle. “To disturb a house in grief—”

“But they are dealt with,” Iroh says pleasantly. “Such a minor breach is hardly worth bothering the Fire Lord about.”

“Bothering me about what?” Zuko asks, crossing back to the terrace in a few steps, his short hair shiny with sweat.

“Jing Li here was just wondering if he should bring out more food.”

“We have enough, thank you,” Zuko says, settling on the opposite cushion. Jing Li bows again and withdraws.

Alone, Zuko meets his gaze with a quiet smile.

“Good morning, Uncle,” he says.

“Good morning.”

They eat slow and keep the conversation simple, as the sun climbs and climbs. Absent the usual ornamentation, Zuko looks smaller—no comparison to the infant Iroh remembers still so well, stretched across his hands—but somehow shorter than usual, narrower without the robe and crown weighing down his shoulders. He has abandoned the mask, as well, less a regal frown than a quiet sadness drawn across his hollowed eyes.

Kun flits in and out, other duties attended, clearing away the plates as they finish. Zuko holds out his empty tea cup for a refill, and Iroh pours with steady hands.

“Is this,” Zuko says, hesitant, swallowing a gulp before continuing, “is this what I'm supposed to be doing?”

“What do you mean, nephew?”

“Just—is there something I'm supposed to be doing today, some way I'm supposed to act or something to say...”

He trails off, frowning at the tea, eyes unfocused.

“I mean, I know I'm supposed to be thinking about her, and reflecting, and grieving, but...I keep getting distracted. I start thinking about the court or the ministers or something stupid, like what's in the tea, or—”

Zuko casts a quick glance to the east, to the shadowed wall and drawn curtains.

“There's nothing wrong with that,” Iroh says gently. “It does not serve to dwell on grief, and you need not devote yourself to its practice. Let the thoughts, the memories, come and go as they will: do not shy from them, but don't force them either. There is no shame in acceptance.”

Zuko nods, still contemplative.

“But it would look bad, right?” he says. “If I were to treat this day as any other. Just get dressed, attend court, go for a walk.”

Iroh leans back a bit, smiling.

“Well, I see you've learned to think things through.”

Zuko smiles back weakly, glancing again eastward.

“Perhaps some pai sho,” Iroh suggests. “It has been too long since we played.”

Zuko assents with a familiar teasing groan, so Jing Li brings the board and pieces along with lunch.

Iroh attends the game only as an afterthought, focused instead on watching Zuko. In some ways, he has not changed: pai sho is a game of simple strategy, but one Zuko could never quite master. So consumed by what is directly in front of him, he forgets to consider what might be waiting, six or seven moves down.

“What?” Zuko says, ducking Iroh's stare.

“Nothing. Distracted as well, I suppose.”

He makes his move at last, falling easily into Iroh's planned trap.

“What were you thinking about?”

“Other birthdays.”

“Lu Ten's?”

“Yours, actually.”

Iroh leans back, taking a long sip of tea, while Zuko folds his hands with a patient smile.

“You had no interest in being born.”

“Is that right?” Zuko asks softly. This story has been told between them a hundred times.

“None at _all_ ,” Iroh says, head shaking, theatrical in gesture and intonation, drawing out humor like poison from a wound. “Quite content where you were, in fact. Comfortable, warm, cozy. But your poor mother, in agony for days.”

Pensiveness creeps in, as Iroh looks down at the board.

“For a time, we thought we would lose you both. Your grandfather and I prayed. Your father disappeared.”

Zuko flinches, almost imperceptibly, at Ozai's mention.

“But then dawn came, and with so much squalling, you arrived. I could fit you in both hands.”

He holds them up, together, as if to demonstrate, cradling nothing but air.

“You were very sick, for a long time, and it took your mother a while to recover. But never had I witnessed such happiness. The way she'd look at you.”

Iroh smiles again.

“You were her whole world.”

Zuko nods. He studies his own hands, tracing the empty space between his fingers.

“I miss her.”

He takes a breath.

“But then, sometimes? I'm glad she didn't live to see this.”

His meaning is wider, Iroh would guess, but the sun falls in a particularly cruel line across his scar.

“Maybe she could have helped. The way you've tried.”

They both glance to the east, again. Iroh makes his next move, sliding the lotus tile along.

“You've been trying to help me,” Zuko says again, with a heavy sigh. “You've been giving me advice, about Mai, and I've ignored it. Partly because I can't...because I've been so focused on Ba Sing Se and all the problems with court, and partly because I was too proud. Too convinced that everything would work itself out, and I wouldn't have to make any real effort.”

As he speaks, his voice becomes softer, more empty and sad, shoulders bowed, arms crossed almost protectively across his middle.

“I went to see her, earlier. The door was locked. Attendant said she'd see no one.”

The outpouring pains him—he marks every twitch, every quick nervous glance, his body folding inward, instinct fearing intrusion.

“I don't know what to do. I hardly marked her absence before, but every night without her now is torture. The room seems empty. Over-large. Everything echoes, and when I look at her, I—”

Iroh can almost sense the servants hovering, but they are smart enough to stay hidden. Loyal enough to keep quiet as well, he hopes.

“I don't know who she is anymore. How we fit together. I thought I was better—that I was through it, but then every time I see her...”

Untrodden territory, and what Iroh had been dreading for so long: he was spared watching his wife's grief. Lu Ten was her last gift to him—she lived for only a few hours after his birth, long enough to smile, to see the wonderful result of all her pain and effort. Her passing was sudden, unexplainable in its violence, and shattering.

Zuko nudges the captured tiles along, sunk inward, waiting for response. Iroh has never felt so useless.

He _has_ tried, over and over, for weeks now, with every trick and platitude and charm he has ever learned or possessed. Being addressed as _Uncle_ —naive to assume this an improvement, a sign of his welcome. Mai is a daughter of the royal court, in every sense, raised to say exactly what old men like Iroh want to hear and to ensure that they hear only what she wants them to. She had used Tom-Tom as a shield, ably, deflecting his attention and concern, as Zuko's work consumed him, and Iroh twisted, useless, between.

He searches the deepest recesses of his mind—undusted shelves of advice arranged like books, untouched, all utterly irrelevant.

The silence has drawn on too long, and suddenly snaps.

“Grandfather really prayed for me?”

“Yes, of course,” Iroh says slowly, disappointment flooding his chest, compounding the rising heat. “Azulon was quite fond of your mother. We all were.”

“Maybe it's us,” Zuko says. “Maybe we're the wrong ones to help her. I've thought of writing Ty Lee. I know the Kyoshi Warriors don't exactly grant vacation, but maybe if she...I don't know. Wrote letters or something. If Mai just had someone to talk to.”

“I think,” Iroh says carefully, “that may be wise.”

Zuko nods, and frowns, and flicks the next tile into position.

“I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

The sun bakes them into the terrace, swelling the air, columns of heat collapsing down. The morning's breeze is long gone—the world around them is stagnant, dull, dead. Night approaches but brings no relief. The insects drive them inside.

Zuko falls asleep in the library, folded up on a couch that is much too small for his frame. Iroh is reluctant to wake him, pushing down the impulse to brush the hair from his eyes. In sleep, he is somewhat closer to the child Iroh had loved and nurtured, had used to dam up the hole left by all those other losses. Eyelids a dusty blue, mouth flat, tension smoothed from skin too often pulled tight across his bones.

Caution be damned, he thinks savagely—Iroh sets his hand over the scar, to sweep aside a few reluctant strands, and is startled, in this low light, to see how very much of Ozai hides beneath Zuko's features. He had assumed Zuko's short hair was practicality or some ill-advised fashion, but instead: reluctance. Fear of becoming what had so long ago hurt him, and so deeply.

Jing Li is trustworthy—he nods at Iroh's exit, moving fluidly to stand guard over the library. Memories of a cool bed beckon Iroh, but there is one more obligation. One more attempt.

Mai's attendant is slumped in a chair set just outside her closed door but twitches herself awake at his approach.

“Apologies, General,” she says, “but the Lady has retired for the evening.”

“Not a moment to spare for dear Uncle?”

He hears nothing, but some sort of signal passes through the door, steeling the girl.

“I'm afraid not, sir.”

No sense intruding: he nods, with a disappointed, tight smile, and turns away. He reaches the corner, about to shuffle left and let the exhaustion soak into his bones, when a small hand on his sleeve stops all motion.

The attendant, in this light a wraith of tangled hair, begs him with bright eyes.

“Try again tomorrow,” she whispers. “Please?”


	7. The Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to reiterate, once again, that this fic is not compliant with either _The Promise_ or _The Search_ , though it features characters from the comics.
> 
> I've also updated the warnings for the fic to include depression triggers.

**The Mirror**  
More than anything, she wants it to be just another in a series of days, unbroken, diminished by the monotony. Certainly, Mai had planned as such: a morning of quiet reflection, meditation, tea with the closest of purchased companions. White fabric, but nothing too dramatic—a sleeve, or a shawl, or perhaps a ribbon tied around the waist of a simple red robe—enough to show that she remembers, but that she does not dwell.

But she is powerless. She doesn't rise when called, and as the attendant timidly pulls aside the bed curtain, Mai rolls onto her flat stomach, face buried in the pillow, and goes back to sleep. She wakes again with a dull headache, to the roll of quiet whispers seeping beneath the door.

“I'm sorry, but the Lady is taken ill and will have no visitors today.”

The attendant again, a dam against the permanent intrusion of the ladies-in-waiting. With hissing and sputtering, they withdraw, back to their infant children—most of whom are just beginning to walk, to speak whole words and smile. Courtiers always _are_ too quick to jump on a trend.

The chamber door slides open and closed. The bed curtains rustle behind her.

“My lady,” the attendant says softly. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

She falls asleep again, silencing the headache, but wakes a few hours later, the stench of sea salt and jasmine blossoms choking her nose. Saliva floods her mouth, and Mai struggles to escape the bedclothes. She runs to the washroom and is sick in the basin, afterward pressing both cool hands to her boiling face.

Two west-facing windows, set high on the wall, permit a tiny orange sliver of sunset to slip through and reach the mirror.

 _Hatchet-faced_ , she thinks—all angles and sharpness, chin and cheeks akin to a razor's edge. That's what the children used to call her, when she turned fourteen and suddenly lost all that baby fat, shot up by a foot or two, and developed breasts almost overnight. She was alone by then: Zuko gone, Ty Lee on the first of her many escape attempts, and Azula sequestered away with her masters.

The year before the family had been sent to Omashu, Mai was taken to a matchmaker— _stop crying,_ her father hissed, _if he was worthy, he would have fought and kept his honor, even in death_ —where she was examined, prodded and pulled at, the way she'd once seen servants in the market haggling down a particularly over-priced boar-cow. Every flaw, every inconsistency, every demerit listed and compiled and accounted for: narrow hips, severe expression, unpleasant voice, childish hairstyle, a penchant for harming well-meaning critics with sharp knives. If she was careful, smart, and well compensated, the matchmaker believed she might find Mai a lieutenant. A captain, even, if the season was right.

And her dear mother, who would manage to find the upside in a plague, had taken Mai's hand between her cushioned fingers— _now at least you could be a wife._

Wife.

Mai presses her fingertips in, lined up against her cheekbones, deeper and deeper, until she feels the shift of muscles escaping pressure. She breathes in, air pulled over her cracked lips. Her tongue feels thick, bitter, heavy.

She dumps the basin and rinses her mouth with fresh water, as a clatter behind announces the attendant, swooping in to seize the bedclothes. She might consider remaining here, in the half-light which grows more and more red as it climbs the mirror, patiently waiting until the other room is clear and empty. Mai locks eyes with her reflection—in the right light, her irises could be grey, tinged with flat beige, the color of a dulled, dying tree where the bark has been pulled back. Or she might leave.

The bedchamber curtains are as yet unopened, and the attendant struggles through the dark, arms full of blankets.

“Apologizes, my lady,” she says, as Mai perches on a chair in the corner. “I thought perhaps—”

“Finish your work,” Mai says. “I will wait.”

The tea tray has been recently refreshed—the cut fruit, split open and arranged carefully, glistens with what tiny wisps of light have penetrated the room. Mai's hands fold up against her knees, ankles pulled under the hem of her robe, back straight, shoulders squared. The attendant breathes through apologies, stripping the bed faster than Mai had ever considered possible.

“Is there anything I can bring for you, my lady?” she asks, placing the last pillow and smoothing the wrinkles flat with her hand.

“No.”

“The cook is still up, perhaps a warm meal—”

“This will suffice.”

The glow of sunlight behind the curtains has dimmed and now winks out.

“Yes, my lady,” the attendant says, through pursed lips. “But if you should need anything, I'll be right outside.”

She bows and closes the door quickly in leaving, snapping out the lamplight spilling from the hall. Mai waits, listening to the palace as it contracts for the evening. The rasp of insects out in the courtyard rises and rises.

Mai stands, feeling the weight shift from her thighs downward, to her heels and arches and toes. Stillness is unacceptable, but she wavers, legs unsteady from the lack of movement. She counts the paces from east wall to west—seventy-five—and makes them, slowly, counting down, placing each foot squarely in the tiles' center. North to south is sixty, and on and on, winding between pieces of furniture, around the pile of toys provided for Tom-Tom that he had left behind, past her mother's basin and the brushes from Yu Dao arranged on the vanity, the armoire doors dangling open, flashing their shadowy wares to her placid profile.

A whisper outside stops her. The courtiers have come and gone, leaving their jellies and condolences at the door—it's near midnight, as the moonlight sneaking past the curtain's hem confirms. Mai directs her motion towards the door.

“Not a moment to spare for dear Uncle?”

General Iroh. Mai sucks in a breath, hoping the silence is enough of a clue. The attendant is more perceptive than Mai has given her credit for.

“I'm afraid not, sir.”

Mai listens to night passing over the palace, continually walking the circuitous maze of her room. She had suffered insomnia those last few months before the birth—Zuko slept like the dead, always, but eventually the pressure on her back and hips would prove too much, the heat of the blankets and him and her own alien body overwhelming even the sharpest breeze, and she would slip from the bed with unnecessary caution, to walk the room, until morning brought the rest of the household back to life.

She had had to be careful, of course: no leaving the residence, no forays into the courtyard farther than the edge of the private terrace. It would have been unseemly for the guards or the servants or some random wandering eye to have seen her in such exposure, with her loose hair and gown and bare feet. The solitude—however fleeting, however imagined—was perfect, those few stolen hours while Zuko slept and the baby swam peacefully inside her, where no one was asking for her or requiring her presence, where she wasn't waiting on permission, on servants, on guards, on the trail of Zuko's robe to lead her along.

It is not the same solitude she finds now. There is a hollowness to the tap of each footstep, and the tiles leech warmth from the soles of her feet. As the night rolls onward past the curtains, the circle of Mai's path closes and then spirals in, tighter and tighter, until she arrives at a chair and sits.

By her count, only half a day. The attendant pushes open the door at dawn, preceding the bell, with a tray of fresh tea and food.

“My lady,” she says, bowing, little decorative topknot wobbling. It is obvious: she hasn't slept either.

As she arranges things, setting aside the old pot, nudging the cups, unfolding the napkin from the plate, Mai slides down onto the waiting cushion. The attendant sets a pinch of tea into the fresh water and snaps up a fire.

“You're a bender.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I didn't know that,” Mai says, staring into the tiny orange flame, nested beneath the pot. “I didn't know that about you.”

“I suppose it hasn't come up.”

The attendant smiles and sets about the rest of it, righting the furniture and rearranging the pillows. The curtains are left untouched.

She is a slight girl, average really in height and build, with ashy brown hair tied neatly in a topknot, almond-colored eyes, tapered fingers and narrow wrists. The palace uniform sits easily on her round shoulders, pinched at the waist with a black sash, hem brushing the floor with each bend and twist.

She has a pattern and follows it, while Mai watches quietly, waiting.

“Do you know this tea?”

“My lady?”

“This tea,” Mai says again with an awkward half-flutter of her hand.

“It's your same special reserve, my lady. What General Iroh—or, well, the Jasmine Dragon sends in from Ba Sing Se.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Oh, no, my lady,” the attendant says, almost horrified. “The servants don't—”

Mai sighs, hand raising.

“I didn't mean to imply that—”

But panic is not so easily deterred.

“I've made _special_ care, my lady, that no one touches—”

“I am _trying_ to ask,” Mai says, jaw twitching in the effort, “if you would like to sit and have a cup of tea. With me.”

She regrets not phrasing it as a question—the attendant stands awkwardly for a long moment, before folding aside the napkin twisting in her hands and perching on the cushion opposite. Mai leans forward and pours the tea, in silence, and then takes a flat disc of bread, rolling it between her fingers.

“You've been in my service since the wedding.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“That's six years.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The tea is scalding. Mai winces around the first sip.

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

She sets the cup down again and smoothes out the stretch of fabric curling over her knees. The attendant's cup rests untouched.

“I don't know your name.”

She looks up, meeting Mai's eyes briefly, and then her head snaps down again.

“You've been in my service for six years, and I don't know your name.”

“It isn't important.”

“It is to me.”

The attendant blinks, and bites her lip, and then speaks in almost a whisper.

“Yuki.”

“From the common?”

“Yes, my lady. _Reason. Valuable._ ”

“A good name for a girl in service.”

“Yes, my lady.”

With a tiny smile, Yuki takes a sip of tea, careful not to slurp or drain the cup.

“Were you always meant for service?”

“Yes. My mother was an attendant of the Princess Ursa, until she left to have me.”

Mai takes pity on the girl, taking a small bite of the bread, releasing Yuki to eat herself. The servants are fed before dawn, usually, but Mai can imagine—awake all night, probably sitting guard outside the chamber. She takes another piece, spreading jam and salted butter, so that Yuki might do the same.

“And your father?”

“He was a guard.”

“Was?”

“Yes. Released from service. He has a share in some merchant stalls now, with my uncle.”

“Then your parents are still living?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Any siblings?”

“No, my lady.”

“Do you see our family often?”

“Yes. They live here in the city.”

Mai finds herself staring at a bowl of pomegranate seeds and takes a few, setting them on the edge of the plate, watching them roll into the dips and wells of the porcelain.

“And they had no objection to you disappearing for half a year?”

It is painful to watch: Yuki chews the bread as completely as possible, giving herself time to choose her words carefully.

“They understand, my lady, the life of a palace servant.”

Mai sneers around a sigh.

“Swept off to distant lands, alone, your only companion fired. Living always at the whim of a childish tyrant.”

“I don't think of you like that,” Yuki says softly. Then adds the requisite: “My lady.”

She clearly hasn't been well drilled in the protocol—a twitch of movement rolls over Yuki's arm, as though she would lean forward, reach out in comfort. But then she must remember herself, blinking, shoulders drooping ever so slightly. Mai leans away as well.

“Finish your tea, Yuki, and then return to your tasks.”

The bed is too pristine to disturb, so Mai shifts to a divan, away from the window. Light leaks in, despite all efforts, a fuzzy grey glow settling over the furniture. Yuki finishes sometime around noon and nods at dismissal.

“Shall I bring you more tea, my lady?”

“Later. Just go.”

Mai draws her own bath, when she's certain Yuki is far enough down the hall not to hear. The rows of ointments and oils and salts and soaps are a mystery—most aren't labeled by anything other than a cryptic drawing, and the first one she opens is jasmine. She slams the lid down quickly, fighting back nausea.

The tub fills slowly, so she checks the lock again before peeling the nightgown from her skin.

One wall of the washroom is dominated by mirrors of various lengths, angled to reflect the morning sun spilling from tiny windows carved high on the walls. It's not perfect, of course: a series of rose-colored oil lamps line the walls, unlit, and in this lack of illumination, Mai steps forward, eyes drawn to the blurred lines of her naked form.

She had been afraid of herself, for so long, of dark purple lines fading spider-white across her hips and stomach and breasts, a widening and softening of curves, swollen feet, fatigue and dull aches, the unfamiliar hardness low on her belly, beneath the skin. Now, her hands ghost over what had been, what now has thinned and flattened and atrophied. The matchmaker's assessment still holds true, somewhat—she is taller, but her voice and hips and face have changed little.

None of these are the reason, though, she thinks with a frown, tracing the ridge of her hipbones around and in. The deficit must be somewhere inside.

The water is cooler than she's used to, but not by much, certainly not enough to call or bother anyone. Mai slips down, down beneath the water, tugging the ribbon until it snaps and her hair floats out, free, fanning to her shoulders.

The household noise, unnoticeable before, through the water is magnified in resonance yet muted in distinction, footsteps a dull throb, voices a drone. Someone knocks, a slow thudding, and Mai lets out the breath she's been holding, watches the bubbles surface in a stream.

She stays too long, feels herself locked in instinct, and she pushes against the sides of the tub, trying to stay under, lungs screaming, eyes closed, until there is only the rush of her own heartbeat in her ears. The water has warmed to her, and she wonders if _this_ is how it felt, if she was already drowning and helpless before the failure of delivery.

The water breaks around her, and Mai gasps, air burning her throat. She takes a few ragged breaths, wiping clear her mouth and eyes. With a toe, she hooks the plug and lets the water drain out around her, tangled hair falling across her shoulders.

“My lady, is everything alright?” Yuki asks from the bedchamber. “My lady?”

“Yes,” Mai says in a rasp, rising slowly, steps careful so as not to slip. She has no idea where the towels are kept and so crosses the room, dripping water, to unlock the door. Yuki enters, alarmed expression softening.

“General Iroh stopped by and said he couldn't find you. He was calling, outside the door.”

“I fell asleep.”

“Hmm,” is all Yuki has to say. She opens a cabinet Mai had mistaken for just part of the wall and settles a towel as big as a bed-sheet over Mai's shoulders, leading her to a chair back in the bedchamber.

Mai feels a little guilty at the extra work—Yuki spends the afternoon teasing out every tangle, working a trio of delicate ivory combs through Mai's hair. She knows, somehow, to avoid the jasmine oils.

“I believe General Iroh and the Fire Lord are taking their evening meal in the private dining hall.”

“Good for them.”

Yuki was forward enough to have something set out already, but Mai discards the towel at the vanity and slips between the blankets, arranging her damp braid on the pillow.

“Good evening, my lady,” Yuki says, and draws the bed curtains closed.

The first full day gone, then, as Mai stares upward, staving off sleep by counting the ceiling tiles. A clawing ache works its way outward from her middle, but she doesn't get up again until just before dawn.

With forced determination, she slides to the floor and finds her own clothes, pulling a gauzy white robe over her head, securing it with a red sash that must go to something else. She'll have to wait for Yuki to fix her hair—her fingers are inadequate, after all these years still trapped in the old pattern.

She stands from the vanity and takes a few faltering steps. Such convalescence is hard to escape, and she is momentarily at a loss. A thought flits through—the living need light, but the curtains are much heavier than she had expected: Mai forces the first two wide and then gives up, dusting off her hands and pulling a chair into the spilled light.

Yuki hides her surprise well, nudging the door closed without so much as a rattled cup.

“My lady,” she says, hesitant.

Mai thinks of making a joke—mouth open, eyes wide, but nothing falls past her lips, and Yuki moves on to the tea table. She is invited to sit, again, and accepts, and Mai eats just enough to be sure Yuki will not starve.

The girl is a little more bold with smiles and words, perhaps relishing what must seem a fleeting luxury. Her manners are decent—not perfect, but learning.

“Are you content, Yuki?” Mai asks, setting her elbows at the edge of the table. If Yuki is improving, there is room certainly for a little decline on Mai's part. “As an attendant?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“You've never wanted to do anything else?”

“I was always meant for it. Mother trained me almost from birth.”

“And you're satisfied with that?”

She hadn't meant it to come out so adversarial and curses inwardly, as Yuki sets aside an untouched orange.

“Yes. Very much so.”

“Already two years past your majority,” Mai sighs, as though it was all so long ago for her. “No betrothal?”

“Ladies' servants aren't permitted to marry until they've been released.”

“Do you want to be married?”

Yuki frowns.

“I suppose I hadn't thought of it.”

“Neither had I,” Mai says, lips twisting into what feels like a smile. It must look like something else. “But here I am.”

She flicks at the napkin and then settles it over the plate.

“We'll have a bit of business today, I think. Send for the playwright. I'll have her for evening tea.”

The message is relayed out into the hall. Yuki turns to continue, but Mai waves her back.

“The bed will keep for a day.”

She must have done alright in the selection—Yuki makes a few minor adjustments to the robe, adding a long sleeveless afternoon coat made of rich gold brocade, retying the sash behind in a neat bow.

“Have I always had this?” Mai asks, fingering the embroidered lotus blossoms.

“Yes, my lady. It was a gift from General Iroh. Better suited for spring, but the summer's heat won't seem to leave us.”

In the mirror, Mai watches herself pull a face.

“If General Iroh makes any overtures today, refuse them. Be polite, be deferential, but be firm.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Yuki leans towards the vanity, reaching for the traditional topknot piece. Mai intercepts her, quickly, with a fast touch.

“No need,” she says, in a tight tone. “We'll keep things informal.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Kori is shown in at the appointed hour, bows, and then stands stiffly, a fair distance from the tea table. Mai is already seated, watching Yuki pour two even cups and then bow herself out.

“Good evening, Fire Lady,” Kori says. “Thank you for the honor of the invitation.”

Mai nods, and Kori sits, uneasy, on the opposite side. She is schooled, and keeps her hands folded beneath the table's edge, eyes averted, waiting as Mai stirs a touch of honey into her tea. The irritation, faded somewhat since the festival, is slow to surface. Mai decides to start simple.

“Do you know,” she says, words even and detached, “how many applied for patronage this year?”

“No, I don't, my lady.”

“Four hundred and fifty-seven.”

Kori blinks, gaze snapping up and then down again. Perhaps without thinking, her shoulders straighten.

“I examined all the applications myself. Do you know how many made it to the exhibition?”

“No, my lady. I don't.”

“Around a hundred. First, the talentless and unconnected were culled. Next, the ones I could afford to offend, and then the ones who couldn't afford to offend me.”

 _There_ it is—annoyance, anger, buried inside but not forgotten, and as she speaks, her words become more clipped and cold.

“Of the remaining, some were truly talented. Others were just connected. Where do you think you fell?”

She is looking for offense and finds it: Kori breaks protocol for indignation.

“The play was a success. I've gotten plenty of good reviews—”

“They would give good reviews to a _head of cabbage_ if they thought it might catch my attention!”

Kori rocks back, and Mai presses.

“Do you think this arrangement is merely an exercise of vanity? Have you forgotten yourself? So quick to assimilate, so eager to snap up whatever scraps, thrown down by the court.”

Kori gathers in, defensively, now made self-conscious of her attire—none of those defiant green and brown threads, just red and orange and yellow in the sharpest trends.

“I thought you wanted—”

“Don't _ever_ assume a thing about me,” Mai says. “My wants, my needs, my desires. Especially not my favor. I could've chosen _anyone_ in that hall. I chose you. Think on that a while.”

For a moment, Kori appears too shocked to move. But then she stands, and in a sort of soulless wander, makes the threshold of the room before turning back.

“Maybe,” she says, voice shaking and then growing stronger, “maybe I have been taken in. Let myself be taken. Blended in, _assimilated_ , as you say. But what are you? The ghost of a hundred better women. No one knows.”

Kori is nearly in tears, convinced perhaps of the coming consequence.

“There's nothing to you but skin and a few sighs. What is that ever worth?”

She gives one quiet, hitching sob. Mai can only stare, anger receding, a buzzing numbness settling in her ears.

“No one speaks to me like that anymore.”

Mai breaks the stare first, eyes falling to her hands.

“Good evening, Kori. An escort will see you back to your studio.”

In a daze, Mai reaches midnight, stripped and dressed and tucked in bed. _This is it_ , she thinks, tracking the moonlight across the floor. The last day.

At dawn, she tries—she _tries_ —thinks so hard about getting up, imagines the sequence of movement required, from shoulders down, to lever aside the blanket and slump off the bed, but a pair of hands closes around her heart and her throat, keeping her in place, compressed, reduced.

Yuki is disappointed by the decline—she peeks through the bed curtains and then withdraws. There is nothing to clean, really, and hasn't been for days—Mai is, in ways, glad and in others resentful of the attention.

She twists in the sheets, seeking out the indentation, the hollows where Tom-Tom had curled beneath her arm, the empty space she tried so hard to fill with her too-big baby brother. She had heard the rumors, of course, but never cared. Not while he was here, while he filled the rooms and walls with his smile, while she made up for all that lost time, all the years of separation, for that moment atop Omashu, lifetimes ago, when she had made the smart and painful choice.

She has never been much of a sister. A daughter, student, friend, lady-in-waiting, girlfriend, traitor, lover, wife. For three days, she was a mother, but she can't feel that. The baby had no name, and no shape between her hands—exactly as she said to Azula: grey, distant, like a wisp of smoke.

She should cry—should _be_ crying, should wail and scream and curse the universe. Mai finds a malleable section of thigh and digs her nails in, pinching, stabbing, but nothing. Nothing, not even a cringe or a slight misting of vision. She can't even force herself to be angry about it.

The moment is closing in on her, exact, down to the hour, and she half-expects to hear a muted lullaby, but then there's a gentle tap on the door, the slightest creak as it's pushed inward.

“My lady,” Yuki says. “I have something for you.”

This is what draws her up: pulling on yesterday's coat, Mai crosses the room and takes the offering. A square of thrice-folded parchment, acting its own envelope. The wax seal shows no mark.

Yuki is pulling at the curtains, opening windows to usher the heat away, and Mai stands in the terrace doorway, tilting the parchment into the light.

A drawing, which she half-remembers, the figure composed of only slashes, curves framed for head and hair and belly, all of it merely impressions, save for the left hand. Arm twisted up, bent back to the shoulder, delicately shaded fingers wrap around the hilt of a throwing knife, poised for release.

She flips the parchment over and finds a note scrawled hastily on the back.

_If I am truly to become the court painter emeritus, I had better start practicing pretension in my titles. How's this? Portrait of Resilience in Woman._

Eyes closed, she can just see it: herself, almost five months gone, frustrated at the shifted balance. She was using the tree above the pond as target practice, while Min lounged at a safe distance, fingers bruised with charcoal, offering mocking encouragement as he sketched.

Zuko had passed through the courtyard with a few of the ministers, pausing long enough for a kiss, for Hiroshi to suggest she take a nap, for a few of the others to twitter about appropriate hobbies for the Fire Lady. Her own sharp retort, that such defense could prove useful on her visit to the southern coast. Takashi, shaking his head, with that reedy, patronizing tone— _such concerns are outside yours, now, my lady._ And how foolish she felt, insisting, as Zuko stood aside and said nothing, smiling.

Mai opens her eyes again: empty pond, empty courtyard, and the leaves at her feet just beginning to tarnish. Sunset has come and gone—she missed it completely. Already night is closing over the courtyard, a heavy black veil descending. On the far side of the courtyard, she can just make out the blank orange oblong of the royal chambers' window.

She wonders, idly, if the fireplace is empty, when the light is suddenly split, and she can see Zuko, half-shrouded, facing something inside.

She wonders too if sound would reach across the distance, but instead of speaking, folds the parchment back together and closes the terrace door.


	8. The Courtyard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay between chapters. I had exams and then Maiko Month and then a job hunt, and I just couldn't get to it. I promise I won't ever disappear for three months again, though!

** The Courtyard **

Aang says something to her, but he's facing forward, and the wind steals his words away. Katara hopes a light squeeze of his shoulder will suffice in response, but still Aang glances back, and his smile falters.

“What's wrong?”

But she only shakes her head and smiles in return, and then settles back in the saddle. They're just now passing over the harbor, and Appa will begin his descent soon.

The Fire Nation capital has changed dramatically since the war—Katara thinks of it in stages, as first Ozai's visage and influence were slowly expunged, and then repairs, and then expansion. The inner city has nowhere to go, obviously, but someday soon the lower city will rival Omashu in size and complexity. Appa lows as they fly up and over the caldera's rim. For a moment, she can see clear to the beach and the encroaching darkness of night, and memories of the Black Sun Invasion flicker across her blurred vision.

She tries hard not to think of Sokka when they touch down. Aang is still smiling as he reaches up to help her slide to the ground, and she wants to let _his_ mood smother hers, but the fight lingers, unwelcome, at the very edge of her thoughts.

Features schooled to a humble smile, Katara turns and swallows her gasp. An alarming mass of people have gathered to oversee their arrival—a formal greeting just past the palace gates, attended by the whole royal court and whatever city-dwelling nobility could slip in on such short notice.

Aang reaches for her hand with a nervous smile. He's never really enjoyed this part, either.

He waves the whole walk, while Katara just keeps pace. Zuko waits for them at the end of the long march, on a platform raised slightly above the crowd, grinning, flanked close by his uncle and a few flat-faced men Katara assumes to be officials.

The difference has always astounded her: where Ba Sing Se is boisterous and joyful, the Fire Nation stands in near-perfect ranks, silent, no one jostling for place or so much as craning their necks for a better look, and arranged, oddly enough, by color. Yellow lines their immediate path, melting out into wide swaths of gold and orange, ringed outside by diffuse red. Katara feels engulfed and wants to hurry Aang along, to reach the end and escape the hostile eyes raking over them.

They pause at the foot of the platform.

“The Fire Nation welcomes the return of Avatar Aang and Princess Katara.”

The title still pulls at her, but she remembers to bow in tandem with Aang.

“We are honored by the invitation, Fire Lord,” Aang says, grinning.

Zuko bows back. He and his officials wilt in the traditional red and black, topknots and crowns and pointed beards—Zuko is only slightly an anomaly here, with his clean face and short hair. In six years, only his eyes have changed, hollowing, haunted.

It takes Katara a moment to find Mai in the assembly—usually Zuko's shadow in distance and attire, she stands apart now, behind and on the left. And her look is something else: radiant in warm yellow and white, face unpainted, hair twisted up in two buns and ringed by gold flames. Six years have refined her features, face smooth as a porcelain statue. Only her eyes betray any sign of life.

“Fire Lady,” Katara says, bowing again. Mai blinks, but then responds with the slightest tilt of her chin.

Inside, a reception has been arranged. Resplendent in decoration, the tables nearly sag beneath the panoply of food and drink. One table is raised above the others—perfect for the stares no one seems to be even _trying_ to hide as they are ushered through the crowd.

“Don't let go of me,” Aang whispers in her ear, but Katara is seated at one end with Mai, while Zuko takes the opposite, placing Aang at his right and Iroh on his left. Aang shoots her a series of pathetically begging looks, but Katara can only shrug. They are guests, after all, and subject to the whims of their host.

Entertainment accompanies the food: little painted girls dance around the tea service and the presentation of cold dishes. At first, Katara intends to be moderate and demure, but long trips always manage to amplify her hunger, and everything looks so beautiful and delicious. The courtiers can go ahead and gossip—they would anyway, and nothing she does can really change that. She takes a little of everything and then, when finished, goes right back for more.

Conversation is kept light. During the main course, the little dancers become singers and musicians, set in quartets at various places around the grand hall. The others at the main table—all men, Katara notes suddenly—are polite and deferential, remarking on the great honor of the visit and throwing compliments down the table to Mai, who says nothing.

Aang looks slightly less lost as the evening wears on, chatting animatedly, drawing genuine laughter from Zuko and his uncle. For a moment, Katara flashes to memory again, to their last visit and Zuko greeting them alone, with empty eyes and slumped shoulders.

When the soup arrives, all pretense ends. Katara attempts to keep the conversation going, but the men circle up and ignore her.

“You get used to it.”

Mai sips her tea with a practiced delicacy.

“It's still insulting, of course, but you notice it less.”

Guilt twists Katara back around to face her fully. Her glance falls briefly across Mai's attendant, waiting in the shadows far behind.

“Does the food find your satisfaction?”

“Yes, of course,” Katara says with emphasized politeness.

Mai nods. No smile, hooded eyes, both hands hidden again beneath the table's edge. She is not watching anyone, focused down at her own untouched bowl.

“And you, my lady?” Katara ventures, remembering the honorific this time. Mai's eyes flick upward. Something like a smirk briefly colors her expression.

“As hostess, I can well afford to offend myself.”

But one of her thin hands makes an appearance from the depths of her gold sleeve, bringing a small spoon to her lips. She declines to speak again.

The evening ends, at long last, in the royal residence. The courtiers and officials are left behind for Mai and Zuko to farewell, while Aang gratefully takes Katara's hand, and they follow Iroh down to the library.

He tries to entertain them with tea and pai sho—Aang takes the bait, but Katara would rather move about, to pace leisurely from window to window as moonlight settles over the palace.

“You are restless, my dear,” Iroh says.

“Katara doesn't like sitting still so much.”

“Too many banquets,” Katara says with a smile. “I think I prefer the adventure of travel.”

An hour later, Zuko finally joins them. Mai does not.

“How can you still just be sitting around?” he sighs, rubbing at his brow.

“We're engaged in epic battle,” Aang replies, frowning over the board. “I'm very close to winning.”

Iroh laughs.

“This may take a while. Perhaps you might indulge in a short walk, nephew?”

“And take Katara, before she wears a hole in your floor.”

It's too late to leave the palace itself, so they take a few turns around the courtyard in silence. Zuko seems reluctant to pass farther than the pond, though, so Katara slows and stops at a bench.

Zuko stays standing, hesitation written behind his eyes.

“Aang...warned me. Not to mention Sokka.”

Katara frowns, crossing her arms.

“He didn't have to. It was just a fight. Just simple, stupid fight with my simple, stupid brother.”

“Well,” Zuko says, shrugging, “I wouldn't know. Fights with _my_ sister usually involved a duel to the death.”

She's expected to laugh, but the best she can manage is a thin smile. Zuko sits.

“We're not here to talk about my problems, anyway,” she says.

“No, just mine,” Zuko agrees lightly, and his gaze keeps flickering over to the east. Katara looks as well, but sees only shadowed, shuttered windows. “I hope you're prepared for a few weeks' worth of boring meetings.”

“Not me,” Katara says, with a sharp laugh. “I'm not here officially—just vacation.”

“I thought you were acting ambassador, Princess.”

She tries to hide the flinch.

“Right,” Zuko sighs. “ _Don't mention Sokka_.”

She takes his hand to show there's no offense, and they sit quietly for a moment. Only a few falling leaves disturb the stillness.

“I suppose, then, I don't have to feel so guilty about the favor I want to ask of you.”

“Favor?”

“Would you...”

He chuckles a little, clearly embarrassed.

“Would you spend time with Mai? Maybe, y'know, become friends? With her?”

She's too surprised to respond immediately, and Zuko presses on, probably anticipating resistance.

“It's just that she's alone here. There's the servants, and her attendant, and the ladies-in-waiting, but that's—courtiers aren't companionship. Not really. She has no friends here, no one to talk to, no one to...”

He flutters a hand out, trailing off. Katara takes a moment longer, but there's no tactful phrasing that could mask her question.

“She has _you_.”

Zuko laughs bitterly.

“If she _wanted_ me, maybe. But between the ministers and Ba Sing Se and now Omashu, I haven't had the time to sleep, let alone... _attend_ her needs.”

He shakes off her comforting hand, standing and pacing in agitation.

“How could I—what was I supposed to do? _Stop_ her from leaving? Make her stay, make her go with me to the south, like nothing had happened. I didn't know what to say when she came back—all those eyes around us, and we're never alone in this, not really. And now, I'm lucky to get a _good evening_ when we pass in the halls.”

Wispy flames rise from his clenched fingers.

“We kept the traditions because it made everyone feel safer. But all this formality—it feels like keeping us apart. We were friends as children, and now I hardly know her.”

“Zuko—”

He sighs, deflated, dislodging the gold crown from his topknot.

“I just...I feel so far away from her.”

Katara looks up from her folded hands as he sits.

“I'm sorry. This probably sounds ridiculous.”

“No, Zuko, it's...”

She bites her lip. At least his awkwardness is unchanged.

“I was just thinking that I should spend some time with her. Get to know her better. She's your wife, and you're my friend.”

“If you had a wife, I'd be her friend,” Zuko says, and she waits for it. “Oh, no, I meant—”

“I know what you meant, Zuko. Thank you.”

They say good night in the corridor—she knows the way, even in the dark. Aang waits to sneak in, letting her undress and decompress and redress before tapping on the doorframe.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course, sweetie.”

As he settles cross-legged on the end of the bed, she runs a brush through her hair.

“You told him about Sokka.”

“You were upset about it, and I didn't—”

“Don't worry about me and Sokka,” she says, not unkind but firm. “Siblings fight all the time.”

“This was different.”

“Don't worry about it,” she says again. “How was your game?”

“Iroh let me win.”

“Of course.”

“He said that Zuko's gotten a lot better.”

“What was he like at dinner?”

“Quiet, I thought.”

Katara laughs.

“ _Relatively_ , for the room.”

“I wonder why she didn't join us,” Aang says casually, playing with the pillow tassels.

Katara puts a finger to her lips and leans in conspiratorially.

“She's moved out of the royal apartment.”

“Really?”

“Zuko just asked me to be friends with her. He's worried.”

She shrugs, setting the brush aside.

“It's a hard loss to weather,” Aang says musingly. “I can imagine, you know, the problems they...”

He trails off without finishing, because neither of them really can imagine. Katara shudders, banishing the thought.

“He thinks she's isolated here, and he wants her to have someone to talk to.”

“Because she can't talk to him?”

“I'm sure he tries. But still, y'know, it's _Zuko_.”

Aang chuckles.

“So I'm stuck alone at these meetings?”

“We should enjoy the time apart,” Katara says teasingly.

“I promise I'll take you somewhere fun next time.”

They exchange a chaste kiss, and then Aang slips back down the hall to his own room.

It feels a little luxurious, the next morning, to sleep in, to be attended and have meals already prepared. The servants' bells are unfamiliar but oddly melodic, chiming her from bed to wardrobe to breakfast.

She joins Aang and Iroh late, settling on her cushion as they're finishing up tea.

“Any big plans for the day, my dear?” Iroh asks pleasantly, folding aside his napkin.

“Absolutely none,” Katara says, returning his smile.

Mai proves more elusive than Katara had considered—she sits in the courtyard with a book and spends all day watching the curtains of Mai's room, but no one ever exits. It takes her three days to realize that Mai avoids the courtyard out of habit. Changing positions does little—Mai does not frequent the exhibition hall or the empty throne room or the outer terraces, teeming as they always are with courtiers. Katara's not much of a fan, either, and makes only half a circuit of each.

Zuko never says anything about it at dinner—Mai, it turns out, takes her meals separate from the rest of the household—but still Katara can't help feeling a bit of a failure. Aang tries to console her with anecdotes from his boring days.

“Fish,” he says, a week in, flopping dramatically across her bed.

“Fish?” she repeats, smiling, pulling the brush through her hair. He speaks half into the pillow.

“There are three freshwater streams on the border between Omashu's land and one of the colonies. They're not wide or deep enough for boats, but the fishermen set nets and—”

“Fish?”

Aang sighs and pushes himself up to sitting.

“The colony is considering building a series of dams to shore off the—I don't actually know because at that point Zuko jumped in about import tariffs and a pretty bird landed on the window sill and I sort of...checked out.”

“Checked out?” Katara repeats, playfully scolding. “Of your duty as Avatar?”

Aang flops back down, pulling a pillow over his face.

“So. _Boring_ ,” he whines. “Please do it for me? You're way better at this stuff.”

“Yeah, there's an idea.”

“Hey, wait, actually yes. You mediate between Zuko and Bumi, and I'll go make friends with Mai.”

“Good luck with that,” Katara sighs. “For someone who hardly leaves the palace, she's surprisingly difficult to corner.”

She sets aside her brush and joins him on the bed, crawling up into his arms and settling against his chest with another heavy sigh. Even wallowing is somehow more pleasant when they're together.

His eyes fall closed as she runs her fingers lightly up and down his arrows, chasing the slight tension from his fingertips up. She knows where it's centered—where it's _always_ centered, since that horrible day years ago—and knows how to coax it away, to start her ministrations distally and circle around. Aang lets out a little moan of appreciation, eyes closed, and as she smiles at the success, the very little beginnings of an idea form in her head.

“Maybe we're being too direct.”

“Hmm?”

He pouts at her stilled fingers.

“You, with the negotiations. What Zuko wants, and what Bumi wants—you'll never get there by just charging in. It's too big, too important for both of them, and it makes them vulnerable. Of _course_ you're getting stuck on fish—what you're actually here for is too much to confront directly.”

She sits up, and Aang rises to one elbow, meeting her grin.

“Give them something they can agree on. Something outside. _Well I thought since I have you both here_ —something they can both benefit from, but doesn't carry the same risk. Make it seem like a favor they're doing for you.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Teo. The Kyoshi ferry—his idea, remember? He showed us—”

“On our last visit,” Aang says, nodding, as his own smile widens.

“He needs investors, and people to do the work. Zuko loves throwing money at Earth Kingdom charity, and Kyoshi's another market for Bumi's goods.”

“Sure you don't want to trade?” Aang asks. “You could have a real future in mediation.”

“Thanks, but I'll stick to my assignment,” she sighs, faux-dramatically, reclining beside him again. “ _That_ 's real politics. All I need is an invitation to tea.”

Aang stays for an hour or two—they exchange leisurely kisses and nothing more. Around midnight he leaves her, sliding from the bed with a soft smile, blowing a kiss just before the door closes. Katara sinks into her pillows with a frustrated sigh.

It's not his fault—they _both_ decided, but that thought's hardly balm for the burning in her belly. She tosses and turns for a while before slipping into a tempestuous sleep.

She starts the next morning back in the courtyard with her book. Mai might avoid it, but the servants don't.

It takes less time than Katara had thought—around noon, a mousy young maid slips out from between the curtains and approaches her timidly.

“Good afternoon, Princess.”

“Please,” she grimaces. “Just _Katara_ is fine.”

“Oh, I'm not—we're not allowed to—”

Katara stifles a sigh.

“I'm so sorry,” she says, impressed at how pleasant she sounds. “I just forget sometimes—your customs are so different from ours. Just, um, _my lady_ is fine, then.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The maid beams at her.

“I only came over to see if there was anything you needed, my lady.”

“No, thank you, I'm alright.”

She bows again and makes to leave.

“A-actually—” Katara says, as the plan forms. She sets aside her book and stands, closing in conspiratorially. Obediently, the maid pauses. “I was wondering if I could—well, if I might ask you something.”

She's not great at this part, but hopes her actual ignorance might help this feigned embarrassment.

“Anything, my lady.”

“It's just—I'm worried I might have offended the Fire Lady.”

She's trying to remember Toph's advice—for a softie like Katara, there would be no kill like overkill. So with a worried little frown, Katara wrings her hands and leans in.

“I've never really been good at any of this, and, well, I think maybe I said something at the welcome dinner because it's been _days_ and I haven't seen her—”

Adding a little twinge of truth can help the lie along, according to Toph, and it seems to have worked: the maid flinches almost imperceptibly.

“I'm certain you caused no offense, my lady,” she says. “And take none—the Fire Lady prefers solitude.”

Katara waits her out with a smile—the maid seems to be wrestling with what to say next.

“But, the Lady wouldn't want a guest to feel slighted,” she says at last. “On some afternoons, there's a sort of open tea in the apartments, where ladies of the court can come to talk or—”

“Pay their respects?”

“Yes,” the maid says, smiling again.

“And are we approaching one of those afternoons?”

“I'll send a girl to come collect you when it's time.”

Elated at her success, Katara makes it halfway across the courtyard before realizing she has no idea what she's expected to wear—but the maid is already gone when she turns back. The still-swinging curtain is the only sign she'd been there at all.

Katara heads back to her own room and stands awhile over her bed, examining carefully the few dresses she'd bothered to bring—excessive, she had thought while packing, but now seeming so woefully inadequate. She'd never fully understood the protocol and pleasantries and _rituals_ of the Fire Nation, and hates it, really, hates the false smiles and the whispers and the condescending tones.

The servants are nicer this time—the girl who arrives to show her to tea is small and very young, and she helpfully fixes Katara's hair and reties a few sashes before bowing them both into the corridor. The walk to Mai's apartments seems oddly long and empty. The girl takes her right to the door and then bows herself away before the door can open.

The tea room is sparsely furnished: just a low table surrounded by firm silk cushions, with only tapestries to cover the walls. The windows stand wide, curtains tied back neatly. The door leading further into the apartment is closed and flanked by two ladies of the court, who eye Katara in silence, frowning until the door opens and Mai enters.

“Fire Lady,” they say, bowing as one. No further pleasantries—as they are each seated at the table, and Mai's thin, mousy attendant sets out the tea—both launch into some inane court gossip.

“Perhaps until the tea is poured,” Mai says, neutral but for the quirked brow. With careful rearrangements of her voluminous robes, Mai sits. Katara takes the opposite of her, while the other two scramble as elegantly as possible for their cushions.

Mai is impenetrable to their prattle, so eventually the women turn to Katara.

“Kaede,” says one, and the other, “Airi.”

“I'm Katara. From the Southern Water Tribe.”

“Yes,” says Airi with a flat smile, “we know.”

Mai appears to pay them no attention, eyes unfocused, far away from this room.

“How thrilling for you, though,” Kaede says. “All the way up from the pole.”

“Actually, I travel a lot.”

“Yes, that's right. With the Avatar.”

“Yes,” Katara says, hesitant. Kaede's smile has not changed, nor has Airi's, as they take tiny sips of tea. But something about their manner, their needle-sharp teeth, and their thin, flashing eyes is... _off_.

“How _adventurous_ ,” Airi sniffs. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes.”

They share a look Katara can't quite read.

“Oh, of course,” Kaede says. “It's so easy for us to forget how _liberated_ you Water Tribals can be.”

Mai snaps back into the room suddenly, fixing Kaede with an unwavering stare.

“What did you just say?”

Stunned into silence, Kaede is not quick enough to think of an answer.

“Yuki,” Mai says, turning her head slightly but leaving the stare unbroken. “I think we've quite enough of tea.”

“My lady, we only—”

“Out,” Mai says, turning to Airi with a glimmer of anger. As one, both ladies rise and bow and shuffle out of the room.

For a moment Katara is sure she's meant to follow, but Mai says nothing further, simply reach forward to stir a small spoonful of honey into her tea. Yuki returns after a few minutes and begins to clear away the empty places.

“I'm sorry.”

Mai sighs, and then continues in the same abrupt tone.

“I go through the effort of making certain your maids—and then my own court, in my _own_ tea room, without so much as—”

Again she sighs, but now at least she's looking up, meeting Katara's eyes.

“I'm sorry. You're a guest and I've allowed you to be insulted in my home. If you were a firebender, you'd be entitled to the courtesy of an Agni Kai.”

At last, she brings the still-full cup to her lips. Katara can't tell if she was joking.

“I was insulted? I—I didn't know.”

“Then I could've saved myself the distress of apology.”

Uncertain of what else to do, Katara takes equally small sips, almost afraid to drain her cup before Mai.

“Those women,” Mai says, “have been skulking outside my apartments for months now, waiting for an audience. You did them the insult of gaining an invitation through intelligence, and those charmless little morons let jealousy get the better of their manners. Don't think I haven't noticed _you_ hovering as well.”

“I guess I kind of stand out.”

“Only a little.”

Mai leans back, studying Katara through those empty eyes. She has no tells, no trembling lip or flashing glance or nervous exhalation. Nowhere for Katara to grab hold and dig in.

“I don't know what Zuko sees in you.”

Katara's brow wrinkles, uncertain how to respond.

“But I'd like to,” Mai continues. “You're important to him. We should be friends.”

She looks down again, shielding a half-smile.

“At the very least, I think we can start with tea.”


	9. The Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Dragon Wife_ is based very loosely on the Japanese folktale _Tsuru no Ongaeshi_.

** Chapter Nine: The Stage **

“No, don't _move_. The light's perfect!”

With exaggerated defiance, Mai plucks a grape from the plate and chews, purposely contorting her face while Min glares.

“You know,” he huffs, scratching across his parchment, “this is why everyone thinks you're ugly.”

“No, this is why everyone thinks _you_ are a terrible artist who is simply coasting along on the goodwill of his social betters.”

The rolled-up sketch, dusty now with coal-black fingerprints, lands on a pile of its fellows: scraps abandoned for even the smallest mistake, smeared and smudged or spotted with ink. Satisfied, Mai drops the grapes back to the waiting bowl.

“Coasting?”

“Of course,” Mai says. “If we hadn't been friends, you would've been fired the first day.”

Min stands with a laugh, stretching.

“When _did_ I fire you, anyway?”

“You didn't, remember? There was a coup.”

He should know by now not to be so delicate with her. Mai frowns.

“Well, I suppose, it _was_ something of an absence. And Osamu never liked your style.”

“Oh, they didn't even wait a week. The Fire Lord was barely past the gates when Osamu sent the porters to collect me.”

“You poor thing.”

“It was tragic,” Min sighs with a certain melodramatic flair. “Booted me right out and into the waiting arms of the lower court.”

“Yes, I _weep_ for you.”

She smirks again at his glare, as Min pulls on his battered painting tunic and hunts out a palette.

“So,” he says hopefully, “there's still talk about me then? I'm the continued subject of gossip?”

Mai shrugs, reaching for the wine.

“None you'd like.”

“Ah, but there is no such thing as bad gossip for someone like me,” Min says, smiling sagely. “If there is gossip, then there is recognition, and if there is recognition, there is _existence_.”

“And if I say they _don't_ talk about you?” Mai asks lightly. “You'll, what, spontaneously combust?”

“Crumble into a sad little pile of useless ashes,” Min confirms gravely, turning his easel toward the open window.

The sunlight filtering through the idle dust and limp curtains still holds the buttery gold of summer, but the windows are closed tight against the rising chill of autumn.

“At least you have the flowers to keep you company.”

“Oh, no, I've moved on, see?”

Min gestures to a row of waiting canvases, blotched in oranges and golds.

“Flowers are just so _last season_ ,” he says, “in every sense. I'm onto murals—they've got a daughter to marry off, and he's set up a house to serve as dowry.”

Mai raises an eyebrow.

“A _house_? I guess the matchmaker wasn't impressed.”

“Actually,” Min says, a little cross, “ _I_ think she's rather pretty. She's sat portraits for me before.”

A pause, as he grinds two colors together.

“Reminds me of you, in ways.”

He looks away quickly, focusing on his palette.

“Actually, now I think of it, there is tiny little whisper that's reached my ears.”

Min turns just a bit to hide his smirk.

“Kaede and Airi?”

Mai groans, sinking into the cushions and covering her face.

“They didn't even _pretend_ to be indifferent—right to my _face_ , in the plainest language—as if I wouldn't realize my own guest was being insulted—”

“Yes, well, their discontent has rolled down the hill to my lowly domicile.”

She's still too wrapped up in remembered irritation to absorb the words right away—but when they hit her, and she jolts upright.

“Why did they come to _you_?”

Min gives her a look.

“How many parties have you attended—have you held? How about that weekly tea—did you ever speak before the insult, or did you just sit in silence? You're inaccessible, Mai.”

“I haven't been _inaccessible_ at any point in the last six years,” Mai snaps back. “I might be selective in my company—”

“You disappeared. Not even the most minute effort of placation—do you know what this place gets like when the nobles don't know their place in the court? So many threads left dangling, and have you picked them up yet? You just _left_ , Mai, and you left a lot of people in—”

He catches her glare and looks a little—not chastened, exactly, but he deflates a little.

“In confusion,” he finishes, nearly a mutter. “And now, no one knows how to approach you, so they come sideways. Through the window, instead of the door.”

The air still feels charged, but for now all Mai can manage is letting her glare dim to a simple unbroken gaze. Called out twice now—she supposes creativity might require some measure of courage, but she can't be sure, having never been allowed to foster any such talents herself.

“I'm not inaccessible,” she says. “I'm closed off. That's different.”

Min nods curtly, perhaps afraid of any offense he has caused. That he's right—on almost every level if she's being honest—is the most infuriating part, but that's hardly his fault. Mai can remember with distinct clarity her last moment of true privacy—the last time she was without expectation, without watchful eyes and attentive whispers, without obtrusive concern and triumphant disapproval. Six years on—she's earned the right to be resentful.

“I've always been like that,” Mai continues.

But even that is untrue. There were always those who broke through—Azula, of course, but then Ty Lee and Zuko and Min himself.

At school, he had flashed a mirror in her eyes across the courtyard, and from that day they were friends. They had first met as toddlers, at some random function from which both their fathers had hoped and failed to benefit—but it was the mirror that brought them together, that had somehow distinguished Min from the rabble of boys who entered the shared courtyard and ambled about, practice-fighting and trying so hard to impress their strict military instructors.

“I'm sure it's envy for the most part,” Min concedes. “They spent a while moaning about the Avatar's visit in general.”

“The Fire Lord's perfectly entitled to favor his friends.”

“And what about you?”

“My husband's friends are my friends as well.”

He's obviously done with the lecture, concentrating on each thin, stiff-bristled line of gold traced in methodical circles.

“Never hurts to make an effort, I suppose.”

She hasn't, though, and that stings as well. Mai has, in fact, been purposely avoiding Katara ever since that nightmare of an afternoon. It had been her own suggestion to start with tea, but that's all they seemed capable of. Small talk—stilted, quiet, disconnected—was all they managed before Mai could find an excuse to escape.

“And how is the playwright?” Min asks. “I've seen her out a few times. Positively translucent.”

“I'm seeing her tomorrow, actually.”

“At least she's prepared.”

“It's not an execution. I'm merely interested in progress.”

“I thought the play was lovely,” Min says with a shrug. “It got good reviews.”

“Yes, I _know_ ,” Mai snaps, and Min laughs.

The door creaks open, and Yuki apologizes her way into the room to remove the tea tray. Mai nods at the girl, and then catches Min's wandering eye.

“Your amusements are elsewhere,” she says firmly, once the door has closed again. “Didn't I hear rumors about you and some admiral's daughter?”

“Please. My prospects were never that high.”

“Nor your standards.”

“My lady, if the only purpose of your visits is to abuse me—”

“Of course it is,” Mai says, feeling herself smile— _really_ smile—in return. “Don't pretend you're not enjoying the attention.”

He shrugs again, glancing away from his splotched canvas.

“You realize you're going to bankrupt my employer?”

“Of course I will,” Mai replies lightly. “But you can't deny—Xun Wu practically wets himself with joy every time my carriage appears. He counts it all towards his own elevation.”

“Nowhere to go but up, when you're scraping the bottom.”

He laughs again at her look.

“ _That_ 's why you were fired,” Mai says .

“And my inability to meet a deadline.”

They both glance to the covered canvas, leaning against the far wall.

“I've been busy,” Min replies defensively, hunching towards his canvas. “Those murals don't paint themselves.”

“It doesn't matter,” Mai grimaces. “I was actually going to ask you to set it aside for a bit—I've got another unfinished project for you.”

“All for a good cause?”

“Only the best,” Mai confirms.

The afternoon has run away from her, but it's hard to feel remorseful. She returns to the palace with reluctance, once Yuki enters again to warn that dinner is being prepared—Xun Wu and his wife are welcoming and full of gratitude, but one meal was enough to suffer through.

The carriage circumvents the front courtyard on Mai's order—it's far too brisk outside to bother with display, so she enters through the kitchens amid the servants' bowing and heads quickly for her own apartment. It's not exactly sneaking if she doesn't have to hide—she just knows the best paths to avoid interruption.

A warm fire is waiting in her private parlor, and while Yuki busies herself with stowing away Mai's cloak and gloves, Mai settles herself beside it, watching.

Yuki has been invaluable to Mai, these last few weeks—managing alone what had once been the job of four. She anticipates needs and provides easy silence. Schedules are set. Clothes laid out and curtains opened and food brought in each morning, then windows closed and curtains drawn and fires lit every evening—most nights Mai still lies awake, staring at the ceiling, but it helps, somehow, to know that there is something certain, something concrete, some _purpose_ to what still, too often, feels like an endless corridor of days unbroken by the curtain of sleep.

But even with purpose, Mai finds it near impossible to rise the following morning, to push her reluctant limbs through the whole routine. Motivation has always been hard to come by—in her childhood, she had relied on spite above all else, and could easily refresh herself at that fountain now. The courtiers loved no tragedy better than an empty life, and she's noticed, lately, the low circling hunger of certain brightly-colored daughters.

She shouldn't begrudge them, really. Had Zuko favored another, all those years ago, Mai might have become something of a scavenge herself—celebrating every private failure for the opportunity it presents.

Spite, then, she resolves, and finally slides from beneath the blankets.

She still takes her time in washing, in dressing herself, in folding and pinning her hair into the comfortably familiar ox-horns. Yuki hovers around, more than a maid now but unwilling to let go of old duties.

“Jing Li wanted a word, my lady,” she huffs, stepping up with a light cloak. “He's waiting in the kitchens.”

“Front door it is,” Mai grimaces.

She hates the long walk out to the gate—but hates confrontation with Jing Li more—when the servants are busy closing down the palace for winter's approach. They pass empty apartments with their doors thrown open, furniture half-covered in canvas, lanterns dimming as the last of the oil seeps into their wicks. Dark, dull, stagnant—too much like a tomb. Mai quickens her pace, as though trying to outrun a shudder.

She rounds the corner ahead of Yuki and stops short. Katara is sitting on a bench outside her own rooms, half-buried in a book.

“Hello,” she says brightly, looking up at the echo. “Heading out?”

“Yes,” Mai replies stiffly. “Only for the day.”

Katara smiles, nodding.

“I tried sitting in the courtyard, but it's a little chilly.”

“I'd have thought you were used to the cold.”

Her smile dims a bit.

“Not as much as you'd think.”

She looks—not exactly offended, but maybe wistful. Sad at some inner trouble. Katara lifts her book again.

“Well, good day, my lady.”

A tiny voice in the back of Mai's mind whispers: _make an effort_.

With a frustrated sigh, Mai snaps the gloves against her hand.

“Wait, I—”

Not a command. A request. Just because one has some power does not mean that one need wield it constantly—her mother's voice joining the chorus, then.

With the same polite smile, Katara looks up again.

“I'm the patroness for a playwright who lives in the city. We—we had something of a falling out over the summer, and I'm going now to make amends, but she—”

Mai grimaces.

“She probably thinks I'm coming to fire her. It would be... _helpful_ , to have a neutral party, of sorts, along for the visit.”

“Ease the tension?” Katara finishes, nodding. “I'd love to come with.”

Yuki plucks a maid from her work in closing the rooms and sends her to assist Katara with a cloak, and then all too soon the guard is helping them each into the carriage with a gruff, “M'lady, m'lady, miss.”

Mai feels obligated by the silence to play tour guide, pointing out landmarks and new additions.

“It's strange how much has grown in the last few years,” Katara sighs, almost dreamily. “All this technology used to kill, now turned towards helping, all over the world. Like the steam ferry on Kyoshi Island.”

“That must be new,” Mai replies. “They were still relying on oars and boar-seals when I visited last year.”

There's a twinge across her stomach—an echo, the bittersweet memory of an embrace. Was it truly a year since she last spoke to Ty Lee? _Make an effort_ , she hears again. Her time with Ty Lee had been so disastrous, so catastrophically painful that she'd pushed the memories down and away—but now, reminded of the absence, as always she wants noting more than to hear Ty Lee's boisterous laugh, to be trapped in her tight embrace.

“They haven't built anything yet,” Katara is saying. “The island doesn't have the money for it, but maybe someday, with the right investors.”

“I'm sure the Avatar could drum up business,” Mai says with a smirk. “And you probably enjoy some celebrity yourself—Princess of the Southern Water Tribe.”

She catches Katara's fleeting grimace.

“You don't enjoy your title?”

“Sokka wanted to be _prince_ ,” Katara sighs. “What was I supposed to say? Everywhere else, I'm just _lady_. But I'm not—if anything, I'd be just a healer.”

Mai is uncertain how to respond and takes a moment considering.

“Having you choose your own titles was supposed to...mitigate such discomfort,” Mai says. And, she thinks, to encourage proper respect from bitter old nobles in Zuko's infant court. “Anyway, I would have thought, since your father is the chief of—”

“It doesn't work like that,” Katara snaps, and then seems to immediately regret it. “I mean, our tribe—the title of chief isn't hereditary. It's earned. Usually the council of elders will—”

She frowns.

“I'm sorry. That's boring.”

“Not to me,” Mai says, and surprises herself with the sincerity. “I was raised by politicians. This sort of thing—I would have been quizzed on the carriage ride home.”

Katara glances her over, with an odd half-smile.

“It's not hereditary,” she says again. “Once a chief has died or wants to resign—or, rarely, if they want to oust the chief—the tribe elders gather together and discuss and decide. A lot of the time, the children of the previous chief will be considered and might be chosen, but it's not guaranteed or anything. Usually it's just one person, but sometimes it's more. Husband and wife.”

“Brother and sister?”

Having spent so many years perfecting her own piercing gaze, it's unsettling for Mai to find herself the target of Katara's scrutinizing stare.

“My father's still the chief now.”

“But?” Mai prompts.

“He's old. The war wore him down, and it's likely that he'll want to resign soon.”

Katara shakes her head.

“But that won't be for a few years,” she says. “Anyway. It's not that important.”

They reach the studio in an oddly comfortable silence. The driver scrambles around to help them step off, and then escorts them all the way to the door, squaring his shoulders importantly. Katara gives a quiet snort of amusement, and Mai finds herself smiling again.

Kori herself answers the door, nervous, all but her face and an arm hidden behind the edge. She straightens and quickly steps aside, bowing low, sending her unadorned topknot into a wobble and wrinkling the delicate silk of her tunic. Still more gold than green, Mai notes, as they cross the threshold.

“W-welcome, my lady,” Kori says. “It is an honor to have you in my home.”

“Good morning, Kori,” Mai replies, as Yuki peels away their cloaks. “This is Lady Katara, of the Southern Water Tribe.”

Kori bows again, despite Katara's grimace.

“Kori came to us from the colonies. Her father is the mayor of Yu Dao.”

“Oh, I have friends in Yu Dao!” Katara says, and then seems to think better of it. “Well, sort of. We knew each other during the war.”

Yuki disappears into a narrow servant's door, and for a long, awkward moment, the others stand—Kori looking to the floor, Mai glancing over Kori, and Katara gazing around the spacious entrance.

“I think my father's entire house could fit into this room,” she remarks lightly.

“Mine, too,” Kori blurts, and Katara's answering laugh seems to break the tension.

“This actually used to be the company quarters for the old opera house, before it moved to the inner city,” Mai says, who has always lived in rooms far too large. She feels the shift back to neutral tour guide and accepts it, selfishly. “I thought it was a good fit.”

She turns slightly, addressing Katara as they wander into the empty west gallery.

“Kori here is an accomplished playwright in the Earth Kingdom.”

“Oh? Anything I might have seen?”

“I doubt it,” Kori says delicately. “I wasn't well-known or anything.”

She darts ahead and angles them into a deceptively narrow door—the room beyond is even larger than the entrance, a mock theater, scaled down in all but stage space. There are no chairs for an audience: only a wide, sunken space overflowing with scattered props and costumes. A clear patch in the center holds a low tea table and a ring of cushions.

“Excuse me, my lady,” Kori says, bowing again. “I'll go get the tea.”

“Yuki can attend to that,” Mai replies, seating herself. Katara follows and then Kori, with a reluctant glance to the narrow door. “You're not keeping servants?”

“It seemed excessive,” Kori says stiffly.

Mai feels a little sorry for removing Kori's obviously planned chance at escape—the girl almost radiates tension. Mai is just about to take pity and reassure her when Kori speaks.

“I want you to know, my lady,” she says, addressing her folded hands at first but then slowly looking up, “I took your criticisms to heart, and I have been working—very hard—to create something you will approve—if I could be allowed a moment for—”

“After, I think,” Mai says. “We will eat first, and then you can show us whatever it is you'd like.”

She'll have to work on comforting—Kori still looks more terrified than relieved, but Katara distracts her with questions about her earlier works. Yuki brings tea and a light meal, and stays when asked—though she sits a little behind Mai instead of at the table. Still a work in progress on that front, as well.

Childhood trained Mai to remain silent during meals—though now, so often the hostess, she is expected to speak. She doesn't, though. She sits back and watches the interaction, the easy way Katara conducts herself, with always the right question and effortless quip. She possesses naturally the charms Mai had once drilled as a little girl, nervous beneath her father's expectant glare.

“You're always so quiet,” Katara says, and Mai blinks, returning to the table. “Kori was just telling me about the exhibition. You picked her out of a crowd?”

“Not randomly,” Mai says. “I'd heard rumors that I wanted to see confirmed.”

Kori is looking down at her hands again.

“You had a reputation for being something of a radical. Your father wasn't exactly popular, and scandal in his house was a source of entertainment for a while. I was intrigued.”

“Then I hope what I've written now will satisfy you.”

She jumps up, animated for the first time since their arrival, dashing around the room to collect scattered parchment—renderings as well as script, plans for costumes and sets, notes scribbled in different hands. Kori sets the collection on the cleared tea-table, extracting a leather-bound folio and setting it at the top, turned to the opening page.

“ _The Dragon Wife_ ,” Mai reads with a tiny thrill of excitement.

“I've been studying your tastes,” Kori confesses.

“There aren't many people who know my weakness for mythology,” Mai says, but Min will pay for that later.

“What is _The Dragon Wife_?” Katara asks. “I've never heard it.”

Kori doesn't speak—calculated, again probably on Min's advice and he will _definitely_ pay—so Mai takes a moment to sip her tea and then begins.

“I'm sure your Water Tribe has its own fables and stories—about where your bending abilities come from, how you arrived in the south and why you live the way you live—same as the Fire Nation. _The Dragon Wife_ is one of ours.”

Looking around, she can pick out now sets and costumes, can guess the forest and the cottage and pieces of an over-large loom.

“The original version of the fable is simple. Long ago, a young man was hunting in the forest. He was very hungry and frustrated after an empty day, so in anger, he shot an arrow into the trees. To his surprise, he hit something. He followed the sounds of distress to a small clearing, and found a dragon. His arrow had pierced one of its legs. Since dragons were revered by our ancestors, the hunter was ashamed and removed the arrow. The dragon flew off, wounded, and the hunter returned home with only a handful of berries to feed his ailing parents.”

Katara's engrossment isn't for show—she leans forward, smiling, hands folded beneath her chin.

“That night, when the hunter and his parents were sitting down to tea, there came a knock on the door. A beautiful young woman was there and begged for the hunter's help. She had been attacked and her arm broken and bleeding from a deep cut. The hunter took her in and cared for her, nursed her back to health. The hunter fell in love with the woman, but he was very poor and had nothing to offer. But she said that she would marry him, and that she could weave such beautiful tapestries that they would never want for money. However, she made the hunter swear that he would never look upon her while she was weaving.”

Mai can see the tapestries of her childhood unfolding in memory, the walls of unfamiliar houses lulling her to sleep, alone in quiet corners.

“So she wove a beautiful tapestry, and they took it to the market, and it sold, and the family ate. The hunter begged his new wife to continue weaving—if they sold enough tapestries, he could buy a farm, and they would never need for food again. So she wove, and they bought a farm and some animals and then more fields and then workers to tend the fields and animals and then little huts for the workers to sleep in and then a bigger house and some market stalls to sell their food. Still the wife would not let her husband watch her work. She would shut herself away for hours and emerge with the most beautiful tapestries, but always herself looking a little more tired and worn. Kings from across the world demanded to have her tapestries, and so she wove and wove and wove.”

Absently, Mai traces the petals of a golden lotus embroidered on her robe.

“The hunter demanded, and the wife provided, every day looking thinner and more ill, losing color and voice. The hunter grew suspicious of his wife, questioning how she could produce so much in what seemed so little time. One night, when she went to go weave, he followed her. She had a small room set aside, and he could see her shadow moving behind the thin door, but the shadow's shape confused him. The hunter nudged the door open and was shocked to see, not his wife, but the dragon. As he watched, the dragon pulled one golden scale from her belly, and with teeth and talons, twisted the scale into a fine silk thread and wove that thread into the loom. She heard him at the door, and turned, and knew she was discovered. Before the hunter could say a world, the dragon rose up and flew out the window, leaving her last tapestry unfinished.”

Katara smiles.

“That was lovely.”

“That's the original version. The one that we learned in school was slightly different,” Mai replies, smirking. “Instead of being hungry, the hunter is in the forest seeking the most dangerous beasts to fight and kill. He catches a dragon in his net and is about to strike, when the dragon begs the hunter to release her. The hunter agrees, after extracting a promise that the dragon will teach the hunter all she knows of firebending. But once the dragon is free, she flies off, wounded and refusing to teach the hunter a thing. Hunter goes home, finds a wounded woman on his doorstep begging for help. He will only help her if she marries him, and she agrees. Years pass, and the hunter demands a son and wants to know why his wife hasn't yet provided one. Instead of a son, she says, she will give him all the wealth he could ever wish for. So she weaves. Beautiful, incomparable tapestries. And the hunter is suspicious, of a woman who forbids him to watch her weaving, disappears for a few hours, and reappears with more and more tapestries. So, one night, he spies. He sees the dragon. He shoves the door open and draws his sword and demands to be taught firebending. The dragon teaches him, and begs for her life in return. But the hunter kills her.”

Katara blinks.

“Well, that's...brutal. And doesn't make a lot of sense.”

“It doesn't have to,” Mai replies with a shrug. “You're just supposed to be in awe of the hunter, who saw through the dragon's cunning.”

“Except for the part where he was married to her for a few years and never noticed the talons,” Kori snorts.

Mai refocuses on her, as that carefully-instilled guilt for speaking too long floods her insides.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “You were going to talk about your play.”

Refreshed in confidence, Kori leans forward, turning the pages of the folio before Mai.

“I've tried to return to the roots of the story. The hunter is poor, but arrogant. He blames the spirits for his situation. He wounds the dragon and releases it, but still asks for wealth as a reward for helping. The dragon leaves without a word, and then the hunter finds a wounded woman on his return home. He takes the woman in and nurses her back to health. They fall in love, and marry, although the woman never says a word. They communicate only through letters. The woman offers, eventually, to weave, as always in secret where her husband can't watch. They grow wealthy, but now the husband wants a child. He demands it, and reproaches her for not providing one. The constant weaving has weakened his wife, but he is reluctant to let her stop—he loves wealth now, as well. So he goes, and he spies, that he might learn the secret of her weaving. Instead he sees the dragon: talons brittle, plucking her scales one-by-one, spinning them into silk thread and weaving them into the tapestry.”

Her passion is entertaining—Kori has poured herself into this work, and it glows through her eyes and her ever-quickening speech.

“What he sees isn't the dragon he remembers. She's the same, but—weaker. Ill. She has used all of her scales but one. Just as she is about to take the last scale, she sees him and makes to fly away. He begs her not to go, ashamed of the way he's treated her, remembering suddenly the love he had for the woman, long before she began weaving. But the dragon plucks out the last scale, weaves in the final thread, and dies.”

Kori leans in, a natural in storytelling—the room silent for her and riveted.

“The hunter is devastated. He refuses to sell the last tapestry, making of it a shrine to his lost wife. Every day he prays to it, prays to the spirits, prays for his wife to come home. He loses all wealth, all the vain little things her labor had brought him, until there's nothing left. Just the tapestry, and the man whispering— _please, forgive me_. And suddenly, the large gold egg woven into the center of the tapestry is not cloth—as delicate as fine glass, it cracks, and inside: a perfect, sleeping infant. The dragon wife's final gift.”

Mai remains perfectly still. She knows she is supposed to—is _expected_ to react, but her throat is tight and all she can do is stare down at the blurred pages.

After a long silence, Kori takes a sharp breath.

“Is...is that radical enough for you?” she asks, perfectly sincere.

When she can manage it, Mai nods.

“I think,” she says softly, “it will do.”


	10. The Throne

**The Throne**

Six years since last he walked this path. But no, that's not right—Zuko pauses at the crest of the hill, looking down. Only five. The time-line of loss blurs everything together in his head.

As before, he makes the journey alone and dismisses the guards to wait outside on arrival. They bow and exit, eyes averted. With an almost mocking chuckle, his father's rusty voice rises from the depths of the cell.

“You'll forgive my failure to pay the proper obeisance, Fire Lord. I have taken ill.”

A chair has been provided—Zuko draws it closer to the bars and sits, instinctively curling his hands over the armrests.

“Should I send for a healer?”

“No need—the guard captain saw to that.”

“And?”

Ozai grins, teeth gleaming in the low light.

“I will live.”

Zuko nods, no strength for habitual disagreement. A tea service has been set out on either side of the bars, and Ozai's bed has been pushed forward. He sits wrapped in blankets and stares, unabashed, with the same faint smile.

“I should have thought of something to say,” Zuko sighs, eyes on the teapot.

“Did you get lost?” Ozai suggests. “On your way to visit your sister instead?”

“I saw her last year,” Zuko replies. “She hasn't changed either.”

“Prisoners always seem somehow locked in time, don't they? Caged physically, emotionally, chronologically—”

“I'm not here for any philosophical drivel from you,” Zuko snaps.

“Then why come at all? It certainly wasn't for the tea.”

Reduced back down so quickly to the sullen, glaring child. Zuko says nothing, and Ozai smirks, and the tendrils of steam rising from the teapot dissipate in the prison’s dank air.

“I came here because—”

He sighs.

“Because you’re what’s left. Because even though I told myself I would never see you or speak to you again, that you’re _nothing_ to me—nothing but bad memories and pain—that I’ll never be anything to you but a disappointment and a traitor, you’re still—you’re still my father, and I want—”

Twenty-two years old, and Zuko is still biting back tears. Ozai hasn’t yet looked up from his tea. That, at least, is something of a change—silence instead of the eruptive rage. Whatever power he holds is temporary: at any moment, Zuko can leave. Can stand up, walk out, breathe the free air and curl flame through his fingers.

“I had a child,” he says quietly, and he sees only the faintest twitch in Ozai’s fingers. “A little girl.”

“Had?” Ozai repeats, taking a slow sip.

“She died.”

He expects recrimination—laughter, accusation of failure, that smug sneer—but Ozai still does not speak. He reaches for the teapot and pours himself a second cup, and Zuko works his fingers deeper into the grooves of the wood.

“Did your wife survive it?”

“Yes.”

“How fortunate. Securing a replacement might have proven difficult, considering the number of nobility you've executed or imprisoned.”

This, for some reason, he can let go. Ozai's frown is almost imperceptible.

“Perhaps you would prefer the line to die out? Hand the reins of the nation over to some peasant rabble.”

“Uncle’s kept you informed of the situation in Ba Sing Se, then.”

“Should have let me burn it down,” Ozai says.

“Did you and—did my mother ever…?”

Zuko looks down at his twisting hands. He could have asked Iroh all of this, of course—but what sort of punishment would that have been?

“There was you,” Ozai says, “and Azula. If there were others, Ursa never troubled me with it. And I never asked. Children are the realm of women.”

“Until we can make ourselves useful.”

Zuko looks up again, and Ozai looks away.

“I made an assessment. Azula had more strengths than you. I won’t apologize for that.”

“You’ve never apologized for anything,” Zuko snaps. “Why start now?”

“What are you complaining about?” Ozai snaps back, slamming down his teacup. “You won’t the war, did you?”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Ozai snorts.

“If you’re here to return my throne—”

“It’s not yours,” Zuko says firmly. “Not anymore.”

“It doesn’t particularly sound like it’s _yours_ either, my son.”

Zuko rises to leave, and at this, Ozai flinches. He must truly be starved for attention, Zuko thinks bitterly.

“Some practical advice, then,” he says. “Since you are clearly so in need.”

Zuko says nothing, waiting him out.

“You are Fire Lord, usurper or no. Your word is law and should be treated as such, by all of your subjects. But you will never be particularly effective in either arena, if you are plagued by problems in both.”

“A good husband, or a good ruler?” Zuko scoffs. “Doesn’t really explain _you_ , does it?”

“I acknowledge my defeats,” Ozai replies mildly. “Can you acknowledge yours?”

Aang is waiting for him at the palace gates, and there’s no avoiding—so Zuko raises his head and steadies his gait and smiles.

“How did it go?” Aang asks, nimbly falling into step beside him.

“Katara needs to learn how to keep a secret.”

“We don’t keep secrets from each other,” Aang says, mockingly smug. “That’s why we have such a strong relationship.”

And then he flushes red, sputtering.

“Not that you and Mai—”

Zuko holds up a hand, silencing.

“Don’t bother. I know what you meant.”

Aang look remorseful, regardless, as Zuko steers their movement towards the palace. Mid-winter, there are fewer penitents to bother them. A few little girls with their yellow paper circles, a few old women in dark shawls, but otherwise empty streets.

“Actually, Zuko, I was wondering—”

“Please, can we not talk business today?”

“It’s not about that,” Aang says quickly. “It’s actually a favor. See, there’s this project in Kyoshi—”

“I can’t go to my council with another charity expense in the Earth Kingdom,” Zuko sighs. “There’s been pushback. The Fire Nation has its own problems, Aang. Food shortages, a workforce without work—”

“It wouldn’t just be you!” Aang says, before recovering some semblance of neutrality. “Why don’t we ask Omashu to help, too? They’ve been wanting to open up trade Kyoshi forever.”

Zuko sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Is it that bridge thing again?”

“Ferry,” Aang says quickly. “And I can bring it up tomorrow, when we meet with Cheng.”

“Fine. Just...no more business today, okay?”

They pass through the gates in companionable enough silence, and Zuko goes straight for the courtyard—it’s cold, but he has need of freedom from walls and doors.

Aang never seems to mind the weather—freezing winter, baking summer, soaking mid-spring squall—he greets all comers with the same smile, the same annoying optimism. Momo swings down from a satura tree and flits around their heads before landing on Aang’s shoulders. Aang laughs and jumps and skips, and Zuko huddles deeper in his robe. He finds a bench to sit and hunch up, while Aang plays with Momo, twisting nimbly through the bare tree branches

A door at the far end of the courtyard opens, and footsteps are approaching—voices and Katara’s strong laugh.

“Let’s see what the girls are doing,” Aang says, handing upside down and lazily spinning an airball above Zuko’s head. They’re visible now, passing through the courtyard—not quite arm-in-arm, but comfortably close in distance, chatting and dressed for going out. The attendant trails behind, and Katara is the only one laughing, but Mai looks— _brighter_ than he's seen in a long while.

“I don't want to interrupt,” Zuko says, but it's too late. With an acrobatic spin—assisted, of course, by a fine flourish of airbending—Aang drops from the tree to the ground and trots into the girls' path, grinning as always.

Zuko has no choice but to follow.

“ _M'ladies_ ,” Aang says, with a playfully-deep bow. “Heading out?”

“Hi, sweetie,” Katara says, and they lean in for a quick kiss. “Mai wanted to show me the Royal Zoo before it closes for the season.”

“ _Public_ zoo,” Mai corrects quietly. “Opened to everyone a few years ago.”

One of her own ideas, if Zuko remembered right—but like the educational reforms, Osamu had taken full credit once success was assured. And no one had questioned—not even Zuko himself, at the time. And Mai had said nothing about it, then or since.

Zuko stares at her, feeling that familiar frown settle over his face.

“We might go to a gallery opening next week,” Katara says over the silence.

“Da Min,” Mai confirms. She speaks to her own clasped hands. “His patron is sponsoring a small exhibition, and after his botched debut...”

“I'm looking forward to meeting him,” Katara says, after another lull. She glares at Zuko, and he chokes.

“It's, um—good to get out of the palace? It gets depressing. Stuck inside all day.”

Over Katara's shoulder, Aang shakes his head.

“Why don't you come with us?” Katara asks, still glaring.

“We don't want to—”

“Sounds like fun!” Aang interrupts. “Said it yourself, Zuko. It's depressing being stuck in here.”

Zuko follows them at a reluctant distance—it's really too cold for a walk, but no one else wants the carriage. A pair of guards falls into step behind, like always.

It's sad to see the city starting to shut down for winter—the outdoor markets close, schools take in the children, tea houses shutter their windows. The only people left outside are the ones who want to be seen: those with an agenda that cannot be denied. Three or four times the guards must gently deflect petitioners, eager to press their pamphlets and paper decorations into royal hands.

“Cults,” Zuko says to Aang and Katara, apologetically. “Anything short of an arrest sounds like _yes_ to them.”

“You're _arresting_ them?” Katara says, giving Zuko a hard look.

“No! Just—it was just a joke.”

She brushes it off with a shrug, and they carry on—but Zuko can feel irritation prickling the back of his neck. Mai hadn’t bothered to look—she kept her eyes forward and wouldn’t move.

He’s—he’s _trying_ , isn’t he? Getting out of the palace, talking, participating. That’s effort. That should be _enough_.

Aang puts on a burst of speed and reaches the top of the next hill first, turning back with his permanent grin and waving wide.

“Hurry up!”

“We’re coming, sweetie!”

Katara hurries, but Mai holds a steady, graceful pace. Zuko keeps a step or two behind her.

If this is effort, then why doesn’t it feel like anything has changed?

They are met at the gate by a nervous keeper—clearly out of his depth in welcoming royalty.

“I’m afraid there’s little to look at,” he says, darting ahead from arch to arch. “Most prefer the indoors, in this weather.”

“That’s perfectly alright,” Mai says, in that practiced murmur.

They are the only attendees—this is the off-season, after all. Katara sticks close to Mai, and Aang sticks close to Katara, and Zuko trails behind, as before.

What else is he supposed to do? He wakes up, he drinks the tea set out for him, he meditates with Uncle, he uses the right spoons in the right order, he is beginning to better learn when to be aloof and when deferential, but still. But _still_. His bed is empty and the space across the table every morning is shadowed hollow, and when he passes Mai in the halls, he still can’t think of a single thing to say.

Katara can make her talk, somehow—they lean into each other and whisper and then break apart for Katara’s laughter and Mai’s twitch of amusement.

She used to smile, when they were teenagers. When they were first married, even. He tries to remember, but it’s all fog. Somewhere long ago and long gone.

The zoo is built in a circuit, to funnel traffic from one gate to the next, and they follow obediently every sign and suggestion. Primates, predators, lizards—something that looks suspiciously like a buzzard-wasp with its wings clipped—they pause for a moment at the rails of each enclosure. Aang always has something to say—they all listen, politely deferential, as he really is quite knowledgeable. Mai asks a question, and he answers quickly, with a broad grin.

She never used to like touch—except from Ty Lee, maybe, but Katara has her hand resting in the sharp bend of Mai's elbow.

Is this improvement on her part, then? Talking—ask questions, answering, whispering—and moving about, with purpose, even if her path always seems to lead away from him.

All these weeks trapped together in the palace, and never once did she approach _him_. She barely left her chambers, day after day, and what exactly was stopping her from crossing the courtyard?

He's tried not to dwell on her absence—all those months without her, feeling half-alive and going through the motions of existence. And Mai miles away.

The tour ends in a wide courtyard, a perfect circle of stone around an elaborate fountain—dragons or something, which would spit water back into the basin if winter hadn't frozen everything solid.

“I hope you enjoyed your visit,” the keeper says, bowing himself nervously back towards the enclosures. They all bow in response, on reflex.

Birds pick at the bare ground nearby—clouds of them, exotic and familiar, wings folded in. They scatter about and between. Katara lets go of Mai and wanders off to Aang.

Mai remains still, gaze focused on a pair of cranes huddled together beneath a tree.

“Maybe we should get a set—for the pond,” Zuko says, and she looks at him as though surprised.

They are sitting across from each other in the carriage, and he can still feel the cool pressure of her fingers on his.

“From one cage to another?” Mai asks. “Who would wish such cruelty on another creature?”

She says nothing else, holding his gaze for a steady moment, and then she turns up the path towards the gate.

He wants to ask what she meant by that—but she's too far away now. She won’t hear him.


End file.
